


Ashes of Lucis

by sahrmael



Series: So A Star Did Burn [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Animal Transformation, Ardyn Izunia Being An Asshole, Ardyn Izunia is a Troll, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Family, Fantasy, Gen, M/M, Multi, Poor Noctis Lucis Caelum, Starscourge!Noctis, Suspense, Unresolved Sexual Tension, uncle!ardyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27294325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahrmael/pseuds/sahrmael
Summary: When Tenebrae fell at the hands of the Empire seventeen years ago, Prince Noctis was lost to his father and kingdom, and declared dead a short time later. Amidst the rubble of the Oracle's homeland, Chancellor Ardyn Izunia spirited the boy away to Gralea to be remade as a means for his revenge against the gods: A weapon of war, and inheritor to the Starscourge plaguing Eos.Now, with King Regis' health rapidly declining, and Emperor Aldercapt on edge in the war against Lucis, Noctis' time to is nigh, and he must make a choice: Remain a hand of the Niflheim Empire, or return to Insomnia and rise as the Chosen King.(Sequel to "At His Right Hand.")
Relationships: Aera Mirus Fleuret/Ardyn Izunia, Ardyn Izunia & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Ardyn Izunia/Cor Leonis, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret/Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Series: So A Star Did Burn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992832
Comments: 11
Kudos: 60





	1. Two Roads Diverged In A Darkened Wood

**Author's Note:**

> Actually let me know how I'm doing. I've been marinating on this for a bit, and I can't keep it to myself any longer. Thank you, you are lovely people, and I love you just for taking the time to try this out with me. It's been a hot minute since I did a multific of any kind. 
> 
> Also, Ardyn is, of course, a goddamn liar.

The first time Noctis had put down a member of the Kingsglaive, he had been seventeen years old. Less than six months later, that number had climbed to four score and nine, and, three years later, he had caught wind of and grown rather accustomed to the moniker granted him by his enemies, that of the Shade of Niflheim: A masked man whose face remained unknown to the public. A man who could kill without leaving so much as a bootprint in the earth. A man who, as evidenced by his targeted kills, fought in the name of the Empire.

What the Shade always left behind, however, was the telltale trace of daemonic miasma, tainting discarded weaponry and corroding pools of his enemies' blood.

Now, in his twenty and fourth year, he stands ready as a simmering warhound at the Emperor's disposal, under command of the Imperial Chancellor, ever shrouded in myth and mystery even within the boundaries of Niflheim's Empire.

To the elite few who know the truth of the Shade's identity, he is but Noctis, right hand to Ardyn Izunia, and the Inheritor of Black Magic.

* * *

"Mind explaining exactly _why_ I can't have the barracks locker room to myself?"

While not strictly a sacred space, there is great freedom and satisfaction in the ritualistic act of cleansing his body, worn through with scars and mottled with bruises and dirt and dried blood. In spite of his harsh tone, the myriad mass of unscented soap bubbles outlining the crown of Noctis' head greatly distracts from any venom he may have worked into his words. It matters little, for his unwelcome company is not quite so skittish as the soldiers and citizens who tumble out of his way in the streets of Gralea below.

There comes the swift sound of a page turning, a thoughtful hum, and even under fire from the showerhead he can visualize his handler's false expression of surprise, followed suit by a smirk Noctis could paint in his sleep. The other man clears his throat and sniffs, magazine slapping the tile as he drops it to the floor, likely in a momentary fit of boredom.

"Mm. Did we not already discuss this?" he asks with a lilt in his tone that, to Noctis' ear, _bleeds_ sarcasm, dry as it may seem when contrasted with the thoughtful look he envisions from behind the frosted door. "If I don't babysit you —" A grimace creases his brow, and _not_ just because he's gotten a bit of soap in his eye. "— you may well never find your way back home. Certainly not in _this weather._ "

An exaggerated roll of amber eyes is his only reply, along with a sneer to match as he rubs calloused hands through his black hair, watching the suds vanish down the drain beneath a curtain mirroring the depths of Gralean winter nights. He inhales, holds the breath for several beats — _ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen_ — and pushes it out, intending to relieve himself of at least _some_ of the irritation brought about by his undesired visitor.

It doesn't work.

The door swings wide as it is nudged open, chills rippling across wet skin like waves upon the ocean's surface, and Noctis finds himself glowering all the more at the man seated just opposite the stall, poised on the sill of the open window with a cheshire grin plastered to his smug face. That certainly explained why the room was so damn chilly.

 _"I hope you fall,"_ he snaps before his uncle can get in another remark, stepping out of the shower stall and onto a plush rug, fresh towel snatched from Ardyn's outstretched arm with a sneer.

The chancellor gasps in mock disappointment, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"My, what a thing to say, _Prince_ Noctis."

"Don't know who _that_ is. Last I heard," Noctis replies, voice muffled by the towel, "the prince had died in Tenebrae."

Ardyn takes great pleasure in that statement, as he already knows. There had been a time, quite long ago now, where Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum — first and only child born to King Regis — had begun to question his life here in Gralea with this man, demanding answers from dawn to dusk, with memories of only a scant few years under the care of his native Lucis left to haunt him. It had taken the young man years of following this exaggerated politician around Niflheim, nagging earnestly in an effort to whittle the chancellor down, convince him that there was indeed a need for a lost boy to fully comprehend the events of that fateful day in the distant homeland of the Oracle.

While Noctis is not the least bit adverse to lying when it serves him, even he had to admit that the sudden deluge of information from his uncle had been startling. He had been seventeen on that day — not a boy, but not quite a man — and presented a choice, for Ardyn was not known to be an unreasonable man: On one hand, he could remain in Niflheim, ward to the chancellor, continue his ascent through the ranks and secure for himself a life of his own design with Ardyn's astute guidance. On the other, Noctis could return to the land of his forefathers in Lucis, weave his way through the wearying ins-and-outs of learning to live his life as a royal resurrected in time to take his father's place on the throne and _serve a stone_ bequeathed unto the Founder King by hapless gods.

It had been a matter of several days before Noctis had come up with so much as an inkling of an answer, and his uncle had been frighteningly patient — _perhaps too patient_.

In the end, he had chosen to remain, to maintain the foundations built firm beneath his feet, and seek to stand on his own in time. Noctis had been adamant in his refusal to be made a mouthpiece for a kingdom that had long pronounced him dead, for gods who had not seen fit to extend to him knowledge of his discarded birthright themselves. From what little bits of information he'd managed to recover from the imperial archives, the search for him had ceased less than six weeks following Niflheim's calculated strike that served to subdue Tenebrae. And the gods? Well, aside from the extensive damage they'd dealt to Eos amidst their petty bickering some several thousand years prior, Noctis had decided he'd be better off ignoring them entirely.

He dresses from the bottom up, clad all in black as he turns his head to quietly admire the way it all comes together in the full-length mirror. The look quite suits him, now more than ever, the gentle golden accents of his buckle, cuffs, and buttons bringing out the brilliant shine of Noctis' own amber eyes that peer back at him from beneath a mess of damp, dark hair. The angles of his face are well-defined, and a finger traces one side of his jawline, seeking to determine if an appointment with his straight razor is required before his departure.

His look is one befitting a man deemed the _Shade._

"Noc _tis_." The way Ardyn punctuates his name, as if chastising a child for disobedience, is irritating, and he casts an irreverent glance over a shoulder, electing to stare his uncle straight in the eye rather than through a reflection in the mirror. "You have an _appointment_ , do you not?"

A hand flexes instinctively, and the Starscourge crackles beneath his fingertips, a muted electrical sensation thrumming up and down his arm. Noctis stands tall, straightens his shoulders, giving no thought to the waning patience of the audience awaiting his arrival in the throne room several stories above. Emperor Aldercapt, he's come to learn, is quite a stickler for cleanliness and appearances in his court, and so Noctis expects he can get away with showing up a bit later than expected.

The reconnaissance he's collected of late is, after all, of tremendous value to Niflheim.


	2. Lies You Wanted To Hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ardyn reflects on the time spent raising his heir, Noctis finds himself in the presence of Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt, who seeks an advantageous update in the war against Lucis.

Between nimble fingers, the ring moves like water, polished black surface inlaid with bits of deep bronze in an encompassing design that jerks Ardyn back years in time. The memories are, regrettably, rather disjointed, and most of his pleasurable recollections _are_ in some way tainted and warped by the malice he bears towards deceptive figures of his past, long since buried.

Though he cannot quite recall the desired scenery, the details of their faces and scents and proper placement of those he's searching for, he gives it no further thought, dismissing the encroaching sting behind his eyes as little more than the initial onset of another headache.

The common room of the lodgings he shares with his ward is a rather large space, warm in the winter months such as these with a blazing fire often roaring beneath a sturdy brick mantle as it now does. Each spark that rises does so with a distinct _pop_ , further pulling the chancellor backwards, but into more recent days he can better recall than those of his past life.

From his lazy perch outstretched across the sofa, he can see a younger Noctis seated opposite him in a plush chair, once-blue eyes following his phantom shape as he paces steadily from one end of the room to the other, hands clasped behind his back in an effort to maintain composure.

Ardyn ventures a glance to his vision's hands, gloves notably absent and cast over the side of the piano bench in the corner along with his coat, hat, and scarf. He frowns. Had the priceless trinket even _been_ in his possession at the time, or was it only recently recovered?

No matter.

With unruly black hair standing upright in the back, in a purposeful fashion that still makes Ardyn grimace, the boy's phantom demands answers of him, those that his own is visibly hesitant to provide.

He's never _explicitly_ lied to his charge about – no, that's not _quite right_. It's a nasty habit he's fallen into these past several years, telling Noctis stories that he well knows aren't the least bit true. Although, Ardyn supposes, peering up at the disgruntled spectre of his not-so-distant past, the matter of the boy being a blood relative is less an outright lie than it is one of _omission_. Noctis had elected to fill in the blanks for himself with questions he swallowed as answers, saving Ardyn the frustration of winding too many blasted threads about his own wrists.

Yes, he'd taken a calculated risk, disclosing if but a fragment of the truth of that fated eve in Tenebrae, subsequently leaving Noctis to his own devices for too many uncomfortable days. Ardyn had expected the boy to turn on him when he approached the desk five nights later, closing the door behind himself as if to secure their privacy, to perhaps summon a dagger and make a vain and pitiable attempt on his life. What a surprise it had been when Noctis, clearly dejected and shaken, took to a seat and explained his thought processes, coming to the conclusion that he was safest here, in Gralea, with his uncle present to guide him in the development of his natural talents.

Ardyn snorts, disappointed in the absolute stupidity of his reaction – gaping at the revelation was hardly dignified, let alone compatible with his strategies and behaviors – and he'd been pleased that Noctis had missed it in its entirety, going on about how he wanted no part in sloppy plans made by the gods.

 _That_ had been Ardyn's favorite bit.

Seventeen years prior, the attack on Tenebrae by the magitek infantry had been _grossly_ premature. Intelligence had correctly suggested that King Regis and the prince were holed up in the Fleuret manor for the child's well-being and recovery, but flawed in reporting that the father and his fledgling son had departed for Lucis some two days prior. That Regis had still been present on the manor grounds, let alone tending to a convalescing Noctis, had been a surprise not the least bit in line with Ardyn's clever machinations.

Bluntly, he had been rather furious with the mistake.

But the king had struggled to flee the MTs, losing his son to the gaping canyon beneath the mouth of the bridge had been – in retrospect – _a happy accident_. For while the king had been dutifully preoccupied by his efforts to maintain his own life and those of the family Fleuret and their house servants, Ardyn had been granted ample opportunity with which to recover the unconscious prince and alter his plans in perhaps the most devious way imaginable.

Rather than simply _eliminating_ the Lucians' last known ally in the war and issuing ironclad terms for surrender, the prince had also been conveniently abducted and spun like silk to suit Ardyn's needs.

Two birds, _one stone_.

In the years since, word has frequently reached the chancellor's ear that His Highness, King Regis, has not fared well with the proclaimed death of his only beloved son. Illness is expected to claim him at any time if strain of the war itself does not.

Ardyn, for one, could not have been more pleased if Somnus himself were exposed as a traitor for all to see.

No, this was _much_ better.

It flips like a coin, the ring, landing squarely in an open palm. He slips it onto his left hand, its dark shape easily hidden away as his gloves follow soon after. From the breast pocket of his vest, a glinting gold pocket watch is withdrawn, a smirk of genuine satisfaction settling into place as he views the time, snapping the lid shut with a bit of silent mirth.

A smile, and Ardyn brings the brim of his hat down over his eyes. While he lingers here, accompanied only by his thoughts and the gentle warmth from the hearth, Noctis stands before Iedolas now, presenting the fruits of his most recent ventures into Duscae. And, oh, if the results of those labors won't serve to get Ardyn exactly what he wants.

* * *

High above their heads as it is, the light of the grandiose chandelier – a twisted mess of gold and wire and hanging white crystal – coupled with the intensity of the skylights surrounding it makes Noctis' eyes throb hard in his skull.

In contrast to Ardyn, the Emperor dresses in off-whites and light greys with light accents of crimson, his attire at times masking the ragged strip of a beard that juts below his chin. The sight of him alone is like staring off into a blinding field of freshly fallen snow streaked occasionally with blood. Even so, the man inclines his head expectantly at Noctis, a garish white brow rising high up on his forehead as if insinuating that, instead of kneeling at the foot of the throne, he hurry up and get on with it.

Noctis stands slowly, retreating a few solid steps from the dais before he turns to one side, hands clasped neatly behind his back, and begins to speak.

"Your Radiance." A gentle but noticeable now of his head. "On the evening last, I returned to Gralea at the behest of Chancellor Izunia following a fortnight's reconnaissance excursion in Eastern Duscae." Noctis waits, and when the emperor's hand moves to cup his chin in what is perceived as mute interest, he continues: "The Glaives of Lucis patrolling the Alstor Slough are presently and grievously outnumbered by our forces, and have been made to fall back along the Northeastern edges of the region. I managed to track a small group of them to an encampment just outside the crags into Fociaugh Hollow, the last known sighting of the Fulgurian's lightning these past six months."

"I see," comes the emperor's reply, sounding every bit as weathered and weary as he looks, even all made up for an audience. Noctis knows that mention of the gods makes this man feel ill at ease, for the empire has never quite managed to find favor with them in the way that Lucis did. The man drums fingers on the armrest of his polished throne, taking into account the hushed whispers and commentary of his court officers and advisors. "Pray tell, what can I expect from these findings of yours?"

Noctis reminds himself to breathe, calling to mind his uncle's words for dabbling in politics: _Command the room. Don't let them see you choke._

"At best, the Glaives have elected to play the long game and wait out Niflheim's retreat lest they lose more sword arms upon retreating to Insomnia." The city's name tastes bitter on his tongue. "At worst... with news of the king's waning health and his lack of an heir, I believe they seek to find favor with the gods and appoint a new line of rulers to the throne for protection of the Crystal. Thus this search for the Fulgurian and the remaining members of the Six."

Any calm with which the emperor has presented is destroyed with those words, an unsteady anger brimming in his eyes as he stands.

"If the Lucians appoint _another monarchy_ to the throne, we could lose the damned stone _and_ this war!"

He begins ranting then to the court, supposing aloud that perhaps that Lucis may well have hidden retainers within the ranks of their military. Bastard children bearing the blood of past kings who, with the proper incentive and blessing of both gods _and_ stone, could unravel the Empire's entire force with but the use of a few ancient trinkets.

Noctis bites back a smirk. For being _just_ trinkets, the Empire has invested a great deal of time, money, and manpower into obtaining them. But he says nothing.

When the emperor turns to face him once again, seemingly calmed now by his advisors, he clenches a gnarled hand and, hisses at Noctis through his teeth.

"You _will_ see to it that the Glaives in Duscae are _eliminated_ , and the Norduscaean blockade is reinstated _immediately!"_

Both of them know that Noctis himself has no leverage over military operations, but if the emperor has issued to him an order, he expects it to be carried out. By whatever means necessary.

Quite fortunately, for not being a military man, Ardyn's name carries a good bit of influence among their higher-ups.

Noctis bows yet again, low this time, a gesture of respect.

"It will be done, _Your Radiance."_

* * *

By the time his charge returns home, Ardyn is dead asleep beneath the brim of his hat, lost somewhere within the forty-some-odd years he's spent toiling away in Niflheim. His surroundings are those of cold, unfeeling machines, anatomical displays of men and daemons alike, and the ever amused face of the researcher who, honestly, has aged like milk.

As he wanders the familiar corridors of Verstael Besithia's facility, an echo sounds in the far distance, drawing his attention and raising his guard.

The man whose machinations lie within this outcrop of buildings in the tundra has never once given Ardyn reason to believe that, aside from regular physical exams and blood tests, he would be grievously harmed. He expects that, being a man of science and reason, Verstael is not so foolish as to expect that he can tie down a living human host to the Starscourge, let alone one who has suffered its touch for over two thousand years. But Ardyn himself isn't stupid, either. He knows that, were there but a chance, the other man would leap at the opportunity to pick him apart, file away years of research logs and post-mortem samples for the purpose of observing if and how the affects of the miasma changed.

It neither concerns nor worries him. It's just what is.

A second sound follows, a loud metallic clinking that lasts less than a second. The direction of this one is far more distant and in the opposite direction of the first, and Ardyn finds himself both irked and on edge with having to wind his way back through the damned maze of hallways.

_"Ardyn."_

The voice serves to startle him, for he is alone with these illuminated white walls and steel floors, almost chalking the echo up to his own rising apprehension.

_"Hey, Ardyn."_

From nowhere, a disembodied hand reaches for him, grasping his shoulder, and a face begins to appear – a face he's not seen in two thousand years.

He sneers as the other man's form appears and solidifies, seizing him by the throat with a sound that is far less than human. Framed by long black hair, those familiar, infuriating eyes stare back at him with obvious confusion, both of his hands grabbing Ardyn's outstretched arm, a set of fingers twisting in his sleeve. A lopsided smirk falls into place upon his lips, and the chancellor hears the scream of his blood boiling.

_Somnus._

_"Hey,"_ the man repeats, one hand reaching for him, fingertips pressed hard to the base of Ardyn's sternum. _"Wake up. I'm home."_

That loathsome face melts away like wax against a flame, a younger and more welcome visage coming into view. A face with bright golden eyes. He's noticeably smaller in stature than the object of the chancellor's loathing, but better built, his usually pale face turned pink around the edges from the wind chill that lingers outdoors.

He falters, stumbling several steps back, recalling the time and place in which he stands, a rough hand pressed over the thin, taut line that is his mouth.

"My apologies, I wasn't –"

 _"Awake,"_ Noctis finishes with a half smile, a lazy shrug rolling off his shoulders. "Yeah, I figured as much when you didn't answer the first time. You don't sleep much."

The younger man closes the scant distance between them, still grinning, wind-chilled fingers framing his uncle's face in a way that makes Ardyn flinch. It's the same touch the boy used when he was much smaller, roughly half his own height, still kind hearted and warm, looking to share with him all the same comfort he felt in curling up in Ardyn's lap with a book and a blanket.

 _"What have I_ told you _about touching me?"_

"Another nightmare?" Noctis queries as his hands are pushed away, tone flat and smirk still in play but eyes betraying his concern. He's a calculated liar when needed, but Ardyn sees right through him. He's shaken.

_"Hardly."_

His own voice goes unregistered for several seconds, back turned to his charge, the shell cautiously rebuilt around himself with each breath, each step made in the presence of a younger man perhaps _too_ observant for the chancellor's comfort in this moment.

Abruptly, he looks back to Noctis, playful grin blooming across his face in a fashion that turns the blood of lesser men to ice.

"I trust your visit with Iedolas went well."

To the emperor's face, Ardyn is disgustingly civil, utilizing charm and flattery with the same flawless dexterity in which he might use a blade. But behind closed doors, he is very open as to his disappointment in the man, caring little for titles and propriety and preferring instead to speak his mind. A useless tactic, really, for the crumbling head of the empire could do nothing against him. Still, he's always been one for keeping all pieces on the board in play until absolutely necessary.

It is Noctis' turn to make a face, nails scraping through the back of his black hair with an exaggerated groan.

"He wants me to trek back out to Duscae and remove the Glaives from play," he says blandly, as if the whole assignment is beneath him, "and the Norduscaean border reinstated to stop any chance of the their advance. Wants 'em isolated in Leide, I suppose."

"No need for you to make another trip. In time, I will see to it myself that His Radiance gets precisely what he wants. _"_


	3. It Is But A Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when Noctis believes himself to have earned a break, Ardyn comes up with a fun little game for him to play and prove his strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ardyn has style. You just... can't see it.
> 
> Warning for the killing of Final Fantasy animals in this chapter. If you can't hack it, I ask that you exercise caution.

Years spent in the company of this man, trailing after him like a spectre, ought to have prepared Noctis for such wildly unpredictable behavior as this. All the same, after a very unpleasant hour of his day wasted in meetings with the Emperor and his incessantly talkative councilmembers, he wants only to remain indoors, enjoy a hot meal and sleep off the fatigue of the last fortnight in the wilds rather than play his uncle's teasing little games.

Well, from the look of things — what with Noctis bundled up in a great black coat and scarf in the fenced-off practice yard at the back of the third barracks — that isn't going to happen anytime soon.

" _Are_ you paying attention?"

The soldier turns his head, eyes darkening as he spots Ardyn, some thirty meters out, looking a touch _too_ serious in spite of the smile and horrendous getup he elects to display to the public. Really, sometimes Noctis doesn't know _how_ he's managed seventeen long _years_ in Gralea with his uncle's over-the-top sense of style and behavior.

He often insists otherwise, but Noctis is convinced: Ardyn doesn't know shit about style.

A hot puff of breath escapes him, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, and he nods, gesturing with both hands outstretched that he's as prepared for the unknown as he's ever going to be.

_Let's get this shit over with already._

It hadn't been more than an hour after he returned home to the city's Yorach district — which largely housed the residences of political influencers and high-ranking soldiers — that Ardyn had proposed a _game_ of sorts. And, in Noctis' lengthy experience with the man, his idea of a game was often anything but. Perhaps the only _real_ game in his uncle's expansive and eclectic repertoire was that of chess, and Noctis had learned early on that Ardyn wouldn't pull punches on the board, let alone in any other regard.

Needless to say, he's rather on edge and uncertain as to what to expect.

Even from this distance, he can see the man smile, that too familiar twinkle of mischief in his eye as he raises a hand and snaps his fingers.

_"Oh, Helios!"_

Noctis' brow furrows deeply as the sound of metallic screeching reaches his ears, followed swiftly by the unmistakable sound of heavy feet running across freshly fallen snow. He drops into a fighting stance, hands at the ready to summon his weapons if and when they are required. His uncle chuckles, glancing off to his right around the far side of the long building, stepping back a few feet as a startling mass of fur and muscle turns the corner at top speed, growling and panting, making a beeline for Noctis across the practice yard.

Golden eyes are blown wide and, before he can call a sword to hand, the creature's hefty front paws strike him square in the chest, knocking him to the ground with an audible sound. Startled, he stares up into the lengthy face of a beast rather reminiscent of a havocfang, long tongue lolling out the side of its mouth as it serves to blow the stench of an awful breath into the soldier's mouth. He grimaces, seeking to pull away, but the heft of the beast's forelimbs keeps him pinned, and he's not at all certain that havocfangs are _supposed_ to be quite this burly.

Ardyn appears above the pair of them, still smiling, and places a hand atop the creature's head, drawing its attention.

"I see you've met Helios," he purrs, as though the whole ordeal is perfectly normal. _Damn him._ "As I'm sure you've already deduced, he is a _havocfang_ , though not the sort you may be used to."

Understatement of the _decade_ , Noctis thinks bitterly as the creature steps off his chest, circling around behind his uncle like a puppy, skeletal tail wagging and hot saliva dripping from its jaw into the snow.

A snort escapes his throat as Noctis rights himself, brushing snow and bits of dirt from the fabric of his coat, only to find a great deal of what appears to be thick slobber stuck to his front and shoulders. He fixes Ardyn with the nastiest glare he can muster.

"Lucky me," he hisses, placing a hand squarely on his hips. "Right, so you mentioned this was some sort of _game_. Can we cut to the chase already? _I'm tired."_

The chancellor appears a bit taken aback by that, possibly even offended with his head cocked to one side and a fingers playing through the thick mess of fur covering Helios' eyes.

"My, where _did_ you learn your manners, young man?" Noctis hasn't a chance to fire off a smartass remark before his uncle's other gloved hand is clapped firmly over his mouth. "The game, my dear boy, is _simple_ : With the Starscourge running through your veins, I want you to change darling Helios here into a daemon."

The hand falls away and Noctis stares at him, jaw slack and wide. He's no fool; he's read through Verstael's years of research time and time again, but the man has only ever proposed or alluded to the daemonification of beasts, suggesting that their growth and development may well reach unprecedented levels at the cost of their ability to reproduce. Hardly a loss, in the words of the researcher, for the Empire's ability to create and harness such unnatural creatures would eliminate the need for them to breed in captivity. Those left untouched in the wild would take care of that part of the equation for them.

Eyes skirt over the charcoal fur of the creature's visible back and abdomen, mottled with burs in some places and tags and scars in others. Atop its left shoulder, Noctis spots a dark brand set deep into its flesh, certainly made by heated metal, with a series of numbers and letters: **VS XIII-5-1**.

Fists clench and release a number of times as he eyes the havocfang who peers up at him through the fur obscuring its sight. It's no secret between them that he has always loved wild animals, and being faced now with the prospect of having to daemonify one that seems so strangely docile doesn't quite sit right in Noctis' stomach, regardless of his training.

"You needn't worry," Ardyn assures him, breathing in his ear. "Helios here comes as part of a _matched set_ , clones developed strictly for Imperial research into daemons. He won't even know what's happening."

Somehow that doesn't calm Noctis' nerves in the least, but the levelled stare with which his uncle meets his own insists that he carry out the order _promptly_.

"He won't feel it?" What a question. He sounds an awful lot like a frightened child.

"Not having a conscience _now_ , are you Noctis?"

Arm outstretched and palm to the heavens, he steps back, beckoning the beast to follow. It does so at a leisurely trot almost unbecoming of its great size, toothy muzzle pressed into Noctis' hand in an almost trusting fashion. He knows now that, if he _doesn't_ get on with it, Ardyn will do so himself, and likely in a manner that will serve only to shock and teach him yet another lesson in obedience and magic. As his uncle's right hand, a loyalist to Niflheim, and enemy of the Lucian crown, his duty is to _perfect_ his grasp upon the Starscourge, first and foremost.

With a heavy breath, Noctis kneels in the snow, rough hands working their way through Helios' thick fur as the beast pants, nuzzling this time against his shoulder. He parts the curtain covering its eyes with trembling fingers, surprised to find that the big, dark gaze of the creature is reminiscent of that of chocobos he's seen in numerous documentaries, kind and warm.

He scratches beneath its chin with one hand, the palm of the other laid against its brow, and he inhales sharply, focusing.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and the tips of the fingers on his right hand begin to shimmer with black and violet sparks, fragments of what looks like stardust lingering in the smoke that rises from his skin. Helios tenses, and Noctis finds his grip slack as the beast whines and seeks to pull away, only to be held in place by the magnetic pull of black magic. From the corner of his eye, he sees Ardyns own beginning to blaze with pride, a shudder winding its way through his figure in eager anticipation of the results that — for the sake of the havocfang alone — are sure to meet expectations.

Noctis feels a sharp sting behind his eyes, the world around him taking on a distinct glow, an electric violet fog lingering at the edge of his vision. Helios shrieks again, claws digging dirt up and out of the snow as dark tendrils of black light begin swarming across its form. Noctis no longer knows where his body begins and ends, the pair of them appearing to share a singular nervous system, fraught now with an intense burning that has his teeth clenched _hard_.

It lasts far longer than he likes, but ends abruptly in a breathless shock, throwing the soldier and the beast apart with a blast that shakes the ground like thunder.

Pushing himself up on one arm, Noctis cannot tear his gaze from Helios' figure, now laying limp several meters across the yard and twitching at random.

"Why the _fuck_ would you make me do that?!" he bellows, on his feet and starting in on Ardyn, the man still watching placidly as though he's reached a rather dull part in a new movie.

As Noctis moves to seize his uncle by the collar of his white shirt, the chancellor appears on his opposite side in a dull burst of red light, gripping the soldier's face in one hand while the other tears mercilessly at his hair.

 _"Watch,"_ he commands, and Noctis feels himself tremble.

As if on cue, the havocfang pushes to its feet, head shaking furiously as though to ward away the snow as it falls. Noctis can feel his uncle's excitement in the way he breathes, feels his own heart sink and stomach drop as Helios stares them down, once warm eyes now glowing a frightening shade of red. It's grown in stature by at least six inches, outline of muscle rippling beneath skin that appears almost too thin. As it breathes, the cloud emerging from its maw gives off a faint glow flecked with sparks that mimic those of fire. The beast growls in its slow approach, and before Noctis can bring himself to speak, before the daemonified animal can prepare itself, Ardyn has buried a knife in its anterior skull with a sound that strikes Noctis hard in the teeth.

There's an audible beat, both sets of eyes fixated upon the creature now laying still on the ground, oozing an inky blackness into the snow. Ardyn shakes his head and tuts, outwardly disappointed, though Noctis isn't sure with what — _his_ performance or that of the deceased havocfang.

 _"Poor thing,"_ the man drawls, dismissing his weapon and turning to cross the practice yard to where Noctis again lays, trembling this time.

He feels entirely empty and weightless as Ardyn drops to a knee beside him, fingers trailing through the long black hair at his charge's temples, looking almost forlorn for a split second. Swallowing around his tongue, numb as it is now, Noctis' head turns slowly in the direction of his uncle who crouches in the snow with his lower lip held decidedly between his teeth.

"A paltry demonstration of the power you hold. _Hm._ Well done, _for your first time_."

He is seven years old again, staring up into the maw of a fire clawing out the light of the sun in Tenebrae, weak and shaken and unable to speak, though his panicked mind _demands_ he get with it and provide the chancellor with at least _some_ semblance of an answer. Noctis finds himself nodding stupidly, unable to tear his attention from the bloodied body slumped but fifteen yards away.

Ardyn pulls him close, and the scent of pine and blood coming off his sleeve prompts a lurch in his stomach.

"My boy," the man whispers fondly, brushing hair from Noctis' flushed face, "if it shakes you this badly to daemonify a beast, then I can't imagine how you expect to wipe out the Glaives, _and kill the king of Lucis."_


	4. A Place Where You Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis remains angry with his uncle in regards to their game, and refuses to speak to the man for days. Ardyn seems to be irritating everyone, quickly finding himself in a bit of a hot spot with both the Imperial Researcher and his nephew on the same day. 
> 
> He is clearly doing an excellent job managing things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references the death described in the last one, and elaborates a bit further on Noctis and Ardyn's relationship. I hope. I think so. You tell me.
> 
> Cute and domestic-ish in some places. I'm pleased.

It's a scant three days following the _game_ engineered with the havocfang that Ardyn receives a series of phone calls, _ad infinitum_ , which he cheerily ignores. Each time, Verstael Besithia's information lights up the dark glass screen, and the chancellor either swipes a finger across the smooth surface, or tucks the device into one of the many pockets of his coat to wait out the muffled vibrations. He has little patience to be dealing with the researcher at present, far more interested in watching Noctis from a distance as he spars with military recruits within the practice halls of Zegnautus Keep. He's honestly a bit disappointed that his ward has returned to old adolescent habits in the last few days, electing to barely speak to him.

Oh, well.

A blur of movement to the left draws Ardyn's attention, a large brown wolfhound appearing in time to nudge its muzzle up under his arm. He smiles warmly, taking the creature's great head in his hands, rubbing its ears as it bares its teeth and relaxes its jaw in something resembling a wide smile. The dog is Kratos, a great hairy beast belonging to one of the soldiers assigned to the Keep of late. They've met a time or two before, the chancellor and the hound's owner, but only in passing, and so it bothers him little that he can't quite recall her name.

The sound of the dog's tail can be heard as a distant echo against the steel walls of the extensive space, rump placed against the dusty floor beside the bench on which Ardyn sits.

"You are a _beautiful_ boy," the chancellor purrs, stroking Kratos' neck and chest with a fervor that seems to make the dog melt in place.

Eagle eyes return to Noctis as he pulls himself from the floor, swiping a thin line of blood away from the corner of his mouth, adamantly avoiding his uncle's stare. The boy's obstinance is shrugged off as immaterial, and the hound abruptly vanishes from Ardyn's side as a whistle cuts through the air, padded feet rushing to the side of the master.

The brim of his hat falls into his eyes with a soft groan from behind his back, the master in question having sought to knock the thing from atop his head. Kratos pants a short distance away.

"Commodore, if it isn't a pleasure to see you again," he says, righting his outfit as a lithe, silver-haired woman swings one leg over the bench a few feet away, fixing him with a skeptical stare.

"Yeah," she huffs, not at all convinced by his adherence to trivialities. "A real pleasure."

How charming. This woman is not one for small talk — assuming she is for conversation of any sort — preferring instead to get to the heart of a situation, provided it doesn't require a great deal of input on her part. She is young, some years older than Noctis, but young all the same. Compared to _him_ , at least.

" _Stunning_ creatures, dogs," he says, Kratos now darting from his master's side to join some of the recruits at the far end of the hall, seeking to partake in whatever snacks several of the boys have withdrawn from their duffle bags. " _Loyal_. Trustworthy. Do you not find yourself at ease with such a well-trained creature at your side?"

She cocks her head to one side, leaning forward to rest elbows upon her knees, chin falling to rest in the palm of her left hand. "Sure, but a dog only understands so much. Soldiers, on the other hand, are able to learn from their mistakes and perform better the next time."

Noctis stumbles back against the far wall as the wolfhound climbs up the front of his black shirt, leaving dusty large pawprints behind. He shouts, the other soldiers snickering at their companion's misfortune, and Ardyn grins.

"Oh, I think you'll find they're about the same."

The young commodore openly rolls her eyes at him when, rather abruptly, the phone tucked into the inner pocket of the chancellor's coat begins to buzz, the sound greatly amplified by the fact that said pocket rests against the metal of the bench. The woman's eyes flick from Ardyn to his coat and back a few times, a brow quirking in curiosity as she says, "Shouldn't you get that? Being such an integral part of the Emperor's council, it would be a _shame_ if you missed an important call."

He bites his tongue, frowning slightly but reaching into the pocket to withdraw the device, swiping the screen and pressing it to his ear.

"My, what is it _this time?"_

The squeal of feedback blares _loudly_ throughout the training hall, drawing the attention of both Noctis and the other soldiers as the gravelly, unmistakable voice of Verstael Besithia booms through the speaker:

"An explanation is _due_ , Ardyn! I _demand_ to know by _what authority_ you elected to _steal_ my research subjects!"

Baffled isn't quite the right word for it, the chancellor's ear absolutely ringing with a shrill echo, no doubt caused by the abruptness of the sound. He shrugs, knowing that Verstael can't even see him, and huffs a bit in mock concern.

"Oh, dear, is _that_ what you've been calling about? Forgive me, I've been rather _preoccupied_ these last few days." He eyes Noctis with a smile. "Perhaps, the next time, though, you ought to just _send a text_."

The phone erupts into a storm of colorful accusations and swears, many of which even Ardyn wouldn't have elected to let slip past his teeth as a boy of Noctis' age. Some of them are just plain _nasty_ , and — with the whole of the training hall focused on him — he stands, tucking the device back into his coat to muffle the sound of Verstael's shouting.

"Sounds like you better take that," the commodore quips, beckoning Kratos to her side with another whistle.

"So it seems. Lovely to see you again, Commodore. We _must_ catch up." Again, he fixes his ward with a sidelong glance as the commodore takes her chance to escape. "Time to go, Noctis. Your dear old uncle has to set a few things to rights."

The boy is visibly embarrassed by the request, collecting his belongings from the massive heap of bags and slowly making his way to Ardyn, certainly grumbling all the while like a petulant teenager. Yes, the boy is _still_ very much upset with him. But such is life.

Placing the phone to his ear and eliminating the speaker option, Ardyn catches the tail end of Verstael's excursion into name-calling, furrowing his brow as the man starts in on him again.

"Word of advice, my friend: You are _hardly_ the sort of man in a position to call someone else _slimy."_

* * *

Noctis has never cared for the research facilities, even as a boy. The dimly lit corridors and laboratories have only ever served to set his nerves alight, each step cautious and calculated while others — namely Ardyn — strolled past tubes of specimens and mechanical apparatuses as though they were little more than the scenery outdoors.

Even with his jacket pulled up over his shoulders and zipped shut, Noctis shudders, a reaction to the cold that can't possibly be missed by his uncle.

"Now then," Ardyn claps his hands together as the pair of them enter a wide open room, littered with innumerable bookshelves and tables lining the walls, a great three-dimensional display of Eos set squarely in the center. "He calls me here to have a conversation, and isn't even here when I arrive? That's rather _rude_ , don't you think, Noctis?"

Research assistants and doctors of various degrees scurry out of the way then as Verstael himself descends a set of stairs set halfway up against the furthest wall, the rapid sound of his boots on the steps indicating that he is, indeed, furious with Ardyn for allegedly stealing from him. That is about the gist of what Noctis had overheard, but he'd paid it little mind, too busy refusing to look up from the toes of his scruffed training boots.

 _"Ardyn!"_ the white-haired man barks, seizing the chancellor by the throat with a gloved hand that Noctis expects can't be all that clean, given the nature of his work.

All eyes go wide as the researcher slams the auburn-haired man hard against a nearby shelf, a number of books tumbling down around them, scattering papers and folders everywhere. Noctis holds his breath, poised to act if the need arises, but Ardyn lifts a hand to still him, staring Verstael square in the eye. There's a beat — eight, nine, ten seconds — and the two maintain their positions, not a soul in the room daring to move until, at last, the chancellor's eyes move to the researcher's arm.

His own hand falls to his side, but Noctis swears he's trembling just slightly, likely with fury.

 _"Verstael."_ The man's name is a levelled dagger, designed to set him ill at ease and probe the more sensible side of his intellect strictly for his own benefit. If he doesn't let go, there will be blood, and far more cleanup than anyone present wishes to partake in. "I believe you had a question for me."

The older man steps back several feet, breathing heavily and pointing an accusatory finger at Ardyn.

"I know it was you!" he snarls, looking to Noctis like a rather large child pitching a fit. "Only your... conniving mind could conjure up a means to bypass my security measures! I _know_ you absconded away with Verstael Subject 13, Subspecies 5, Mark 1!"

The subject's name is an elaborate mouthful, and Noctis doesn't even try to make sense of it, withdrawing further into himself to act as but a shadow upon the wall. His uncle brushes unseen debris from his coat, mouth downturned in an expression of false thought as he taps his chin.

"Subject... Oh! _Oh_ , are you referring to the _havocfang_ I borrowed just the other day? _Helios?"_

Borrowed, he says. That's pushing every button at once, and he knows it. But the way the researcher erupts again, sweaty red face threatening to melt his beard right off, seems to be precisely the reaction Ardyn is looking for.

"That was _not_ its name! And you didn't _borrow_ it, _you killed it!_ My precious test subject!"

"Nonsense, my friend. That's a perfectly satisfactory name for a _dog."_

A finger is crooked in Ardyn's direction as the man takes a few hurried steps forward, met by Noctis not halfway through his thought process. A dagger, having appeared in a small burst of violet light, meets the superior end of the researcher's sternum, and Noctis is certain that he could pierce the man's armor with little more than a few pounds of pressure.

Behind him, the chancellor beams.

"As much _fun_ as we're all having down here," Noctis says flatly, "I'm afraid I must recommend an _alternative_ approach to airing your grievances, Doctor. Not so sure you've really thought this through to the conclusion, if you get my drift."

Verstael swallows audibly, glance moving between the knife and Ardyn's smug face. He weights his options in silence, stepping out of Noctis' reach with a heavy, shuddering breath.

"Steal from me again, Ardyn," he growls between clenched teeth, "and see if you don't regret it."

* * *

"Noctis, we _really_ ought to have a talk about this."

What a pleasurable response, that of a solid wood door slammed promptly in his face as his ward crosses the threshold. The lock remains disengaged — even if Noctis _had_ elected to lock him out, it would have been a pointless attempt, what with magic and all — and so a gloved hand closes around the handle, pushing it open to spot the younger man pacing in the common room, face set into a concrete scowl.

Ardyn takes his time, hanging his hat and coat on a hook just inside the foyer, examining his cuffs for unwanted debris. He meanders through the short hallway that branches off into the kitchen, hearing every curse and sharp intake of breath as he sets a kettle on the stove to boil.

"You must be hungry after all that excitement," he calls, and Noctis' pacing suddenly stops. "We both know you're not much for cooking, and I'm more than happy to whip something up."

A black shadow appears in the wide doorway connecting the two rooms, radiating his anger and confusion. Yes, it was a cruel bit of sport on his part, expecting this boy to daemonify and subsequently kill a relatively domesticated animal with but a moment's notice. But, as he must know from his ventures across the Empire's territories, the art of war is cold and unfeeling, often unfair, and throughout the next several years, Noctis must be expected to perform at a higher standard, without emotion. Based on this tantrum of his, it would appear that Ardyn has been far too lax with discipline.

How sad.

Ardyn leans back against the counter, facing his charge, watching the storm of emotions cycle across his face like a hurricane. The Starscourge crackles in his left hand and then his right.

" _Why_ would you make me _do that?"_

The voice is strangled and the chancellor, with an impatient sigh, folds arms across his chest and grimaces: "Do not ask _asinine_ questions of me, Noctis. You know I find it insulting."

 _"Insulting?!"_ A gust of wind erupts from where the younger man stands, blackness creeping up his arms along pathways of veins. _"That's_ what you're worried about?!"

Unfazed, Ardyn closes the gap separating them, taking Noctis by the throat and shoving him into the wall. _Hard_.

From the stovetop, the kettle _screams._

 _"Don't forget who made you what you are, boy."_ The tracks of black in the boy's skin begin to shift, bleeding up and into the vasculature in his neck and into the chancellor's own arm, a faint red glow manifesting from beneath the long sleeve of his shirt. His eyes darken, features twisting into something almost unrecognizable as a man. "Your role in this war is to act as _I_ see fit. You are a _weapon_ to be used at _my_ discretion, and, if I so wish, _I can take it all away. Understand?"_

_"Y-Yes...!"_

It's far sooner than Ardyn expected, Noctis' acquiescence being almost instantaneous, and so he allows his charge to sink to the floor with a thud in a prompt fit of coughing and sputtering. He _almost_ feels guilty, seeing that much fear in his eyes. 

_Almost._

"Oh, you foolish boy," he chides, pulling the shaking figure to him as he crouches low, brushing hair out of those stunning eyes and framing Noctis' face. By the Six, he wonders just when that level-headed and obedient child disappeared from this damned place. The headstrong young man left to fill his shoes, while trustworthy and capable, just doesn't hold the same warmth as he once did. He had loved his uncle once, and Ardyn _perhaps_ had... "What _am_ I going to do with you?"


	5. To The Land Where It Began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their way to visit Tenebrae on what appears to be a whim, Ardyn makes an unusual friend aboard the train, and Noctis comes clean to his uncle about a secret. Lady Lunafreya, awaiting the arrival of what she believes to be the chancellor alone, finds herself stunned when the Lost Prince arrives in tow, looking nothing like the man of her visions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting a lot of updates because I can't stop thinking about it, and all the ideas are hitting me like a train. It makes me happy, probably happier than I've been the whole of 2020, and I hope it makes you happy, too.
> 
> I'm also working on a couple of playlists for Ardyn and Noctis, so let me know if you'd like the links!

The trek to Tenebrae through snow and ice is fraught with tension, Noctis adamant still in his refusal to speak to his mentor, and Ardyn is utterly indignant at the thought of being made to wait. He plays it off as he does with most anything else, though it is a quiet anger bubbling beneath the surface of the calm he so easily wears as a second skin.

With that boy of his lingering in bed beholden to a but a dusty tome a few cars back, the chancellor is left to his nefarious thoughts and devices, innocently trading a swiftly passing view out the window for that of a pair of young children rushing back and forth across the uncrowded train car.

They laugh loudly in spite of protest from both parents, giving him reason to smile faintly, kicking his feet up on the opposite bench as if the whole thing is but sport to be enjoyed. The elder of the pair is a green-eyed girl with sandy blond hair, frequent in her efforts to pull her dark-haired younger brother's attention from various discarded trinkets on the floor for another bout of chase. It isn't until the boy stumbles and falls on his face beside Ardyn's seat, looking up at him with a sheepish grin, that the man realizes just how _blue_ the child's eyes really are.

A sharp pain lingers in his chest, face screwed up in a grimace that ought to be a red flag, a blaring warning for others to stay far away, to flee. Children, however, are not quite so perceptive as all that, and while the boy swipes at his nose, rising to his feet to run off and meet their parents, the girl stops cold at Ardyn's side, giving him a concerned look.

_Somnus._

"Are you okay, mister?"

Innocence. Such a shame _it doesn't last_.

The intensity of the ache increases and Ardyn works not to flinch, eyeing the child with a note of suspicion that she appears to not notice. She glances to the far end of the car where her parents and brother have begun to flip through a story book, electing to sit opposite the chancellor on the other side of the train instead.

She blinks at him as if waiting for an answer, but Ardyn is far too lost staring into the vivid depths of her viridian eyes. There's something there that he cannot name, a touch of strange nostalgia that seems impossible to grasp and pin to earth. It's comforting somehow, but so very lost to the innumerable voices drowning in his head, that Ardyn finds himself struggling greatly.

"Are you going to Tenebrae, too?" She has a kind smile to match those eyes, and Ardyn is almost fond of her in that instant. "We're gonna go see the flowers, and the museum, and I think Daddy said that Mama and Auntie are gonna meet up with us in a couple days at the beach, but Papa said this morning that she's probably gonna forget her phone _again_. Are you going on a vacation alone?"

How charming. She can't be much older than six, he thinks, perhaps seven, as she winds her way through overly detailed explanations.

"No, my nephew is here somewhere," he says, soles of his boots dropping to the floor as he shifts closer to the window. "Would you care to sit?"

Positively beaming, she trades her seat for the one at Ardyn's side.

"I'm Nina," she says, little fingers taking to the buttons on his coat almost immediately. He watches quietly, slightly amused by the way she attempts to pull one away from its fastening, looking very much like a small crow with a potential for pickpocketing lingering in the near future. "My brother's Quincy. What's your name?"

"Ardyn."

The child nods almost thoughtfully. "Is this _your_ first time going to Tenebrae? It's _my_ first time."

"No, dear, I've had the pleasure of visiting on a number of occasions, most often for business."

She lights up like the late night streets of Lestallum having heard that, promptly adjusting to sit on her knees and lean in close, hands braced against his shoulder as the train jostles its way down the tracks. Why, she could hang in the sky with the very stars themselves were she to keep that million-watt smile on her soft, rounded face.

"Have you ever met Lady Lunafreya? Did you see her flower garden? Was it the prettiest thing you've ever seen? Was _she_ as pretty as she is on TV?"

"But of course," he says, purposely nonspecific, taking Nina gently by the wrists to place her hands back in her lap. "Several times. Though, I must say that the most pleasurable experience was my encounter with a young woman who lived there long ago. The flowers themselves could hardly compare to her smile."

Nina sits back on her behind, chin clasped in her little palms as she grins in an almost cartoonish fashion.

"Wooow! She sounds just like a princess. I bet she was really pretty."

_"Oh, she was."_

"What happened to her?"

If Ardyn has flinched, the girl hasn't picked up on it, but one of her fathers certainly has, and the man comes quickly scurrying down the length of the car with wide eyes and an apology on his lips. Rather reluctantly, Nina takes his hand as instructed, turning to wave goodbye to Ardyn and thank him for being nice to her as she's ushered back to the side of her waiting family. They disappear a short while later, passing him to retreat back to the bunk cars for rest.

Oddly, all Ardyn can think of now is the feeling of that woman's gentle fingers in his hair, her tender lips pressed to his mouth, his jaw, as they –

_Aera._

He loses himself for a moment in the recollection, oblivious to the present now frozen stiff and solid as the Glacian's great corpse. She's there, lingering at the edge of his vision, lithe hands expertly working through the various buckles and buttons of his attire, shedding layers as though they are but leaves on autumn trees. She smiles, warm and welcoming, the touch of one hand ghosting across puckered scars between his ribs, and her face falls.

As if in comfort, she lays a palm flat against his chest, the other brushing hair from above his right eye as their lips meet. It's the closest thing to absolution he's ever felt, and now is the only time in decades that Ardyn has thought to even reach for it.

"Huh," Noctis says nonchalantly from behind. "I didn't know you were good with kids."

"Surprising, I know," Ardyn chuckles, drawn out of pleasurable reverie with a half-hearted shrug. "Considering I only ever troubled myself with raising the _one."_

Noctis moves to sit across from him with a breathy sigh, one hand clenched as he avoids eye contact. "Look, you've... spent a long time caring for me, teaching me, and I think that I've been pretty awful to you since I came home. I'm sorry, I... I don't _mean_ to question you. I _know_ you want the best for me, but I'm having trouble understanding some of your methods."

How sweet the boy is. Ardyn truly _is_ undeserving.

"I'm far more concerned as to where all this anger suddenly came from, Noctis." Ardyn replies, dragging a hand down one side of his face in something resembling parental frustration. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

There's a spot of genuine surprise in the chancellor's gaze as the other lifts his head and makes eye contact with him.

"Yeah, actually. There is."

Noctis launches into a tale of his days spent tracking the Glaives to their encampment outside the Hollow, lingering distant in trees and in low brush to avoid detection. Evidently, he had grown rather careless on his way to meet the MT carrier that would return him to Gralea, coming face to face with a stern-looking man wielding a long katana. It had caught him off guard when the man, having intercepted him just off the bank of Alstor Slough, had posed a query as to his name, correctly placing an educated guess when Noctis had refused him.

"He said... said his name was Cor, o-or something, and that he was in the service of the Lucian king."

That discarded and forgotten anger rises once more to rest beneath the surface of Ardyn's skin. His very _bones_ feel as though they are alight with flame, and his lip curls for a moment in an uncharacteristic sneer of open disgust.

_"Go on."_

"He... He said that my father –" Ardyn absolutely _seethes_ beneath his mask. "– that the king never once stopped looking for me after Tenebrae fell, even when everyone else did. Is that true?"

Ah, here he is once more, caught between the potential of turning this boy against him and lying outright. By all rights, it stands to reason that Regis indeed would have scoured the region, the very surface and depths of Eos itself, in an honest effort to find his only son. For what purpose aside from lingering paternal guilt, Ardyn remains uncertain, but he has his doubts that it would be solely to see Noctis come into his own as king and live up to the absurd destiny placed before him by the gods.

Ardyn thoughtfully inspects the buttons of his coat, counting them, looking to Noctis with a faint hint of that telltale arrogance woven into his words.

" _Alas_ , my boy, I'm afraid your dear old uncle _cannot_ speak as to what has been going through the mind of His Highness all these many years."

* * *

Great slabs of white marble take on a warm and comforting hue in the light of the setting sun. The distant orb of fire peeking up over a jagged horizon of mountains and vales stirs within the Oracle a wave of comfort, knowing that the sun continues its gracious watch over their Star for at least the foreseeable future.

Not a day passes in which the ever dutiful Lady Lunafreya does not issue prayers unto the gods, requesting their aid in this great time of uncertainty. Their world has been an amalgam of unfortunate events these past many years, the pace seeming to have quickened with her ascension as Oracle some twelve years ago. Daemons have been seen cropping up in the most uncommon of places, terrorizing towns and cities and bringing many to her gatherings to question the will of the gods. In their frightened faces, she has seen doubt grow from but a seed into a scourge of its own, many turning their backs upon the Astrals to attempt taking matters into their own hands. And many of those people, suffice to say, had perished as a result.

"My Lady." The voice which greets her is even, calm, a welcome change to the many panicked pitches she is so often greeted with. She stands, bowing once more to the altar, turning to face the Messenger with a look of reverence. "He comes."

Lunafreya nods, the ends of tall grasses brushing up against bare legs as she walks, lingering a short distance behind the woman graciously come to fetch her.

In recent months, the gods have foretold that the Chosen King of Light would again be made known unto Eos. Now, whether it is he of whom her companion speaks or their esteemed guests from Niflheim, she cannot say. The gods have but given her glimpses into their intentions, never roadmaps, and while she has felt lost in her calling at times, her faith in them has never wavered.

The pair ascend the steps leading up from the field of bright blue blossoms, winding through narrow white corridors to emerge in the wide foyer of the manor Fleuret. It is there that her brother, Ravus, awaits them, dressed well in his white suit, face twisted in a scowl.

"Sister," he begins, "how much longer will you play puppet to the Empire?" Ravus takes her right hand in his. "I cannot bear to see you linger on their strings, made to –"

"And yet, you _must_ , Ravus." Her hand slips away, both of hers rising to graze the sides of his strong face. He looks so much like their father, bless him, and loves as fiercely. "While the tasks which I am given be not always fair, they are still mine to fulfill, as is my duty."

Her brother's piercing gaze is obscured by long lashes, a kiss pressed to her palm.

"My, _this_ looks rather private," a voice says, the doors now spread wide, "I do hope we're not interrupting."

A quick, fluid turn, and Lunafreya bows to their distinguished guest, ever amused and perplexed by the manner in which the chancellor elects to present himself.

From their first meeting, he has come in such ostentatious clothing, far too wild in appearance for her tastes, but she cannot quite imagine him in anything less. The smart, crisp lines of her brother's tailored suit would look so misplaced on him, and so she has learned to find herself a game with each encounter: How many colors, patterns, can a man get away with?

"Chancellor," she says, inclining her head. "It has been too long."

But the man isn't paying her any mind, his rapt attention focused on the lone figure standing several feet behind her. Gentiana, Messenger betwixt the gods and their people, aid to the Oracle.

His features twist in but a touch of curiosity, righting himself just as quickly to lean in, press a chaste kiss to the lady's cheek, glee dancing in his eyes as Ravus tenses beside her.

The touch of his skin _burns like fire_.

"My, how you've both grown," he purrs, clapping a hand on her brother's shoulder in an act of familiarity that makes dear Ravus flinch.

"We are honored by your visit, Chancellor. I will see to it that your room is made up to your liking."

"Sweet of you, but I'm afraid I can't stay too long, my dear; I've errands to attend beyond Tenebrae, you see."

Ravus seems to relax a bit at that.

Ever the picture of politeness, Lunafreya nods. "I understand. Will you not consider joining us for supper?"

A brief bit of movement from behind the chancellor catches her eye, and a tall young man clad all in black ascends the steps to stand at his right hand.

"So this is Tenebrae," he says to himself, golden eyes taking in the scenery and décor. "Huh."

"Manners, my boy," Ardyn hisses, promptly elbowing the younger man in the ribs.

Lunafreya cannot tear her eyes from this man in black, the angle of his face and jaw precisely as she has imagined all these years. When last they met, they were but children, his appearance and mannerisms a far cry from what he displays before them now. But it's the color of his eyes that continue to draw the lady's attention. Eyes every bit as bright and gold and uncanny as the chancellor's own, but bearing none of the same mirth or false warmth.

No, his eyes are empty.

_Oh, dear Noctis._

The chancellor takes pause, looking between Lunafreya and the man at his side, appearing thoughtful for a moment before he smiles, all teeth.

Ravus takes her hand again.

"On second thought, Lady Lunafreya, I believe we may be able to spare _a day or two_."


	6. The Lady of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Noctis follows his promptings to seek after Lady Lunafreya, the two share a moment of mutual benefit and peace. Even with his purpose as the Chosen King still unknown to him, the Oracle remains resolute in the vow sworn to both Noctis and the gods at the time of her ascension: To stand steadfast beside him.

The manor's dining hall is smaller than Noctis anticipated, well lit with candles and minute chandeliers and little slotted windows resting in a neat pattern some six or so inches beneath the ceiling. It's not so grand as anything that exists within the palace in Gralea – the cold modernity of the Emperor's throne room and audience chamber springs to mind – but given the limited number of residents within the Fleuret household, Noctis supposes it suits them just fine.

The table is long but not wide. Ardyn, on his left, sits amusing himself with the recitation of stories Noctis has heard a thousand times before, with the fair Lady Lunafreya opposite him. Noctis, on the other hand, has found himself tasked with the great displeasure of staring blankly into the sour face of Lord Ravus, who has not spoken but a word since their arrival.

As they await the preparation of their meal – Noctis sought to request that the cook kindly abstain from placing any vegetables on at least one of the plates, but had relented and apologized for the silliness of the disturbance after a solid stare down from Ardyn – Noctis finds himself terribly bored with observing their surroundings, having internally mapped the manor's interior twice over now, from the onset of the bridge to the dining hall itself.

He is distracted as conversation carries on without him, false but polite, and his mind whisks him quickly down the rabbit hole, white marble walls and floors blurring past as he is carried to what he assumes is safety.

Eyes downcast to his lap, he frowns, obscuring eyes with dark hair. It hadn't been safety at all, he thinks. Not until Ardyn had found him in the dust on the brink of consciousness and taken him to Gralea.

A cautious glance moves to more thoroughly survey the others joining him at table: Ravus' expression remains about the same, if not more dour; the Lady Lunafreya, in spite of her outstanding efforts to appear nonplussed, bears a glimmer of anxiety in her eye; and Ardyn... well, what more can be said of the flamboyant, theatrical imperial chancellor who lives his life like a carefully constructed game of chess?

"I'm _surprised_ at you, Noctis," his mentor says suddenly, elbow resting atop the table to support his head. His trademark hat and coat rest easy on the back of his tall chair, giving the man an almost normal appearance. "Our hosts have been so gracious already, and you've yet to offer a word of thanks."

Eyes fixated on his still empty place setting, Noctis bows his head gently to each of their hosts. "Forgive me. I have not meant to appear rude or ungrateful."

A gentle blur of white catches his attention, the Lady Lunafreya placing a hand to her lips with a small gasp.

"You need not apologize," she says, trembling. "It is _I_ who should..."

Her voice trails off like the vanishing of smoke, chair scraping against the floor as she moves to stand. There's hesitation in her small frame, and she distinctly reminds Noctis of a turtledove, appearing frail but a powerful representative of hope. Her head shakes, a few tendrils of blond hair falling from beneath the clips holding long strands together. They frame her face with a gentleness the likes of which sparks nostalgia in Noctis' chest.

Not a one of them has chance to speak before she excuses herself in a whisper, darting from the dining hall to the surprise of waitstaff as they arrive to serve the meal.

"Oh, _dear._ " Ardyn stares after her with feigned concern, a colorful bit of candy moved from between his fingers to the inside of a cheek. Noctis doesn't know where he gets these things. "I suppose you had best chase after her, yes?"

* * *

The cool night air drives a shiver down the length of Lunafreya's spine as she weeps, cast beneath a great tree with arms wound round her knees. The winter months in Tenebrae are blessedly mild, permitting the lady to utilize the majority of her wardrobe year round, but the chill on this particular evening brings to mind the thought that, perhaps, she ought to have taken refuge in her bedchambers rather than outdoors among the sylleblossoms.

Straightening her back, her head rests against the tree's trunk, bits of bark surely clinging to her hair as the moonlight illuminates the tear tracks down her soft cheeks. She inhales deeply, exhales, and repeats the process a time or two more, thoroughly shaken and having come to understand the purpose of the chancellor's sudden visit.

Ardyn Izunia was _not_ here on government business, acting as an extension of the Emperor's hand to inspect the goings-on in Tenebrae; he had come to _wound_ her, mock the gods of Eos, flaunting his well-kept secret in their faces. Lunafreya is not so foolish as to expect that the chancellor believes himself the victor in this tale, but it is certain he holds the upper hand and knows it. That dear, sweet Noctis had, all those years ago, been spirited away by the very man the gods had cast from their favor is nothing short of baffling. She's seen firsthand the control the chancellor has over him, body and mind, and perhaps even spirit. What dreadful fate has befallen the lost prince at the hands of the man in Niflheim, the Oracle does not know. Only that, in accordance with the will of the gods, the pair of them have arrived in Tenebrae, perhaps for her to relay to Lucis the truth of the prince's disappearance, if not to Noctis himself.

"Lady Lunafreya?"

While startled, she takes to her feet in a slow, graceful manner, back turned to the man as she again draws deep breaths, facing him only once she's certain the tears have ceased to flow.

The confusion upon his face is rather childlike, eyes dark and wide beneath the thick layer of hair what obscures his brow. She nods as if to still his heart, confident in the knowledge that he will not seek to do her harm. He is the Chosen King, though his path is yet unknown to him, but Lunafreya herself will rise to the challenge and teach him of this truth, should the gods so wish.

It would seem, in light of the circumstances, that this is indeed their intention.

"I'm sorry," Noctis says, appearing awkward and clumsy as he fusses with his suit jacket. "I-I didn't mean to upset you."

Even beholden to a man so conniving as Ardyn, he still bears within his breast the heart of a kind boy. The very same boy she recalls from almost twenty years ago. The boy who, in spite of his injuries at the hand of a daemon, still found in himself the fervor with which to laugh and love and see wonder in the world. It is only a shame he's not had the chance to grow up in an environment befitting his gentle spirit.

"You didn't," Lunafreya replies soothingly, closing the distance between them slowly. The blossoms at their feet seem to spark to life in the light of the moon as the Oracle offers the prince her hand. "My apologies for making you believe otherwise."

He nods, swallowing heavily, rough fingers trembling as they graze her palm. Her flesh does not burn as it does when she touches the venomous Ardyn. "Right. I-I mean, that's good. I'm... glad."

Even only four years her junior, Noctis is grievously unpracticed in the ways of the world outside of Niflheim. She's no doubt that he has traveled extensively, but certain as well that his primary companion all these many years has been the scheming chancellor, whispering sweet lies unto his spirit eager to find its place. Her heart nearly bifurcates at the thought.

The Oracle chances a touch to the side of his face, surprised when he does not shy away or seize her wrist. Gently, she brushes those strands of long black hair back behind his ear, smiling honestly at the way the small gesture so greatly changes his appearance. Fingertips graze the defined curve of his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, coming to rest squarely atop his chest, just above his thrumming heart. A heart lost and frightened.

"Noctis," she whispers, and he makes to reply, perhaps query as to how she knows his name without an introduction. Smiling, Lunafreya bends to pluck a blossom, presses a finger to his lips, securing the blue bloom into the lapel of his jacket with but a golden clasp from her hair. "You need not speak. Pray only know that, should ever you require my assistance, I am here."

* * *

As the remains of hot water trails down the curve of his back, Ardyn finds that he is quite pleased with himself. The muted expression of horror on the Oracle's sweet face had been the cherry on top, a sure sign that, in this battle for dominance against false gods, he is pulling ahead.

The boy, he thinks gleefully, has been utterly undone and remade in his image, though it's become evident of late that far more work is required. Despite being of Somnus' lineage, the only resemblance Noctis bears now to his traitorous forefather is that of his appearance, and Ardyn has managed to corrupt even that with aid of the scourge pulsing beneath his skin. Eyes cast now to the mirror, the chancellor regards himself with relative disinterest, a hand swept absently through wet hair. He takes a sick sort of pleasure in the thought that, were the dead to see him now – _really_ see him – they would be white with shock, riddled with the very same fear that overtook his heart on Angelgard.

Wouldn't that be _delightful?_

Ardyn has scarcely dressed himself in crisp, fresh clothing, thoughtfully regarding the state of his chin in the mirror, when the door opens, the lady herself lingering in the darkened hallway. Evidently, she and dear Noctis have concluded their little visit. That air of superior theatricality winds itself about him once more and Ardyn turns to face her, rather relieved that she has just missed the scars marring much of his flesh. She's perceptive enough on her own as is; he needn't give her any further ammunition to use against him.

"I hardly believe this to be _appropriate behavior_ , Lady Lunafreya," he chortles, more amused at the vulgar insinuation of his own joke than the disparaging manner in which she stares him down. "Why, what would your late _mother_ think were she here to see –"

The woman all but flies across the expanse of the washroom, striking the chancellor square on the cheek with the flat of her hand, appearing not the least bit concerned for her own safety.

It doesn't _hurt_ , per se, but he's not terribly fond of being slapped, let alone in the face. He makes a show of it, humming under his breath as a scarred hand brushes a thumb across the patch of pinkening skin. She snatches his wrist between nimble fingers, and Ardyn produces an immediate hiss and grimace, wisps of black smoke rising from where the Oracle touches him.

"Noctis _will_ rise as the Chosen King," Lunafreya says unfettered, a strangely admirable intensity radiating from youthful eyes. He recognizes it well. _Defiance._ "You are powerless to stop this."

 _That_ throws Ardyn for a loop, a low sound building at the back of his throat, poorly restrained laughter shaking the very walls of the room. Oracle or not, the lady is truly fearless, even knowing what great atrocities of which he is capable – and _without_ the aid of hapless gods to back his strength.

_"Oh, I think not."_

Were the gods to will it, she would stop his charade here, seek to strike him down with but a brush of Bahamut's mighty blades. But she cannot – _they_ cannot stand against him now, their beloved savior wound too tightly round Ardyn's fingertips. The prince _is his_ , and has taken quite well to absorbing and imitating the chancellor's own methods of ruthless execution in his assignments. No, neither the gods nor their precious Oracle could have foreseen his cunning.

She releases him slowly and steps back, smoke still smoldering to the surface of his skin, a distinct black mark now charring the flesh of his forearm. It fills the room with the scent of burnt bodies, the likes of which he _knows_ Lunafreya is achingly familiar. Ardyn dismisses it, the lingering discomfort of his body undoing the damage inflicted by this woman's light. She's angry with him, that much is certain, shaken by the knowledge that the very enemy of the gods themselves whisked their savior away to Niflheim to be corrupted. She's likely determined by now that Noctis has been afflicted by the scourge as well, by Ardyn's hand.

The very air itself is electric, ancient as he stalks toward her, a sly smile pulling at his lips.

He can _feel_ it, the way in which his features shift, the obsidian darkness leaking into his eyes and from his mouth, vision tainted now by a faint hue reminiscent of naught but blood. Lunafreya remains unperturbed by the display, all the same seeking to create distance between them that Ardyn will not allow. Her back falls flush against the wall adjacent the door, and his hands pin her there by fragile shoulders, palms _burning_.

"Your gods are not so benevolent as they may pretend." It's a jeering tone, levelled to her ear, and he swears that she begins to tremble. He almost _dares_ her to flee. "Perhaps you ought ask them yourself, beginning with the ever reticent _Gentiana_."

"H-How could you –?"

"I've had the displeasure of wandering Eos for quite some time, and the gods have sought to play me for a _fool_ from the start, my dear," Ardyn says grimly, standing straight to more closely assess the damage her burning touch has inflicted. "Trust me when I tell you... it is nigh _impossible_ to forget the faces of those who have so _thoroughly_ broken you."


	7. Word of the Chosen Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Lunafreya bequeaths unto Noctis a parting gift for, at the behest of Lord Ravus, he and the chancellor are to leave Tenebrae immediately. In Insomnia, the Marshal of the Crownsguard presents the king with startling news.

"Your presence here has been naught but an _outrage_ and an offense to my sister and her duties, Chancellor. However, you have my vow that I'll not speak word of your treachery, provided you leave Tenebrae _immediately."_

The words stick hard in Noctis' head like a bad migraine, played over and over on repeat until he has ingrained within himself the dusky sound of Lord Ravus' voice. Stumbling upon the conversation had been an honest accident. He had been granted permission by the lady to peruse the manor's grounds at his leisure come morning, and had intended to do precisely that when Ardyn's hollow laughter had reached him.

He recalls the mirth in Ardyn's shining eyes, ever amused as if by his own bad jokes, regarding Ravus with little concern even as the other man had levelled the point of a dagger to his throat.

"Why, there's no need to threaten _,_ _My Lord._ " Even now, Noctis is certain that his uncle had been mocking the other man with his title. Almost as if that, too, were of no value or consequence. "I assure you, the Oracle has _little_ to fear from me."

It's still soon. Too soon to collect his belongings and make for the train station, for Ardyn has yet to inform him of their departure, and he is loathe to explain to both Ravus and the chancellor that he's accidentally eavesdropped on their discussion. He imagines that, even now, the two men stand in Ravus' study, staring each other down. It will be an odd sort of miracle if the chancellor walks away from their discussion unharmed, condescending as he is.

As per intentions, Noctis rather easily finds his way from the borrowed rooms upstairs to the rolling fields upon the plateau beneath the manor. It is still winter, but the crisp morning air is far more reminiscent of early autumn, the chill all but snuffed out by the warm, gentle glow of the sun. He's almost repulsed by it, the light stinging at his eyes, making his fingers itch. Noctis finds that rather odd, having had few problems with sunlight beyond a bad sunburn or two. It is simply dismissed, attributed to some manner of pollen in the air, perhaps.

The fields appear well tended, more green than pale brown, leaves lush and blue blooms beaded with the dawn's light kiss of condensation. A short distance away, certainly obscured by nightfall the previous evening, stands a long line of trimmed hedges, rising perhaps to stand as high as Noctis' waist. Trees of different varieties linger just beyond, as well as a white marble fountain, colorful leaves shed in haphazard shapes upon the ground, the bare branches swaying slightly.

Incredible that he could have missed all this detail, what with years of reconnaissance drilled into him by both Ardyn and military training exercises. There's no formidable excuse as to why Noctis had missed so much of the landscape surrounding the manor, but he's struck suddenly with the impression that Tenebrae is different somehow, distinctly separated from lands like Cauthess and Duscae in a very important way.

"Noctis?"

Almost eagerly does he turn toward the sound of her voice, heel of his boot digging into the grass, crushing a blossom beneath his weight. The realization dawns on him, though the lady herself says nothing, and he recalls the distinct care and precision with which she had gifted him a blossom of his own.

On his knees now, he flusters, picking up the crumpled flower with a tenderness that feels as though it's been _missing_. Noctis looks to her ocean blue eyes in relative shame, offering it in an outstretched hand.

"Sorry, I wasn't... You took me by surprise."

Lady Lunafreya examines the offering for a moment, her smile kind as she withdraws a small red notebook from behind her back – Noctis hadn't even _noticed_ that she had sought to hide something from him. From what he can tell, the book has been bound with remarkable craftsmanship, a golden border and floral design gracing the front.

Simply said, it's beautiful.

"Here." The notebook is pressed gently to Noctis' chest, his hand covering hers when he goes to grasp it. "I have but a small favor to ask. Take this notebook with you when you go. But that's not all: I would like you to put something in the book, and send it back."

Noctis breathes quietly as their fingers touch once more, the lady's opening the front cover of the notebook with a nod. There's a pause, and Noctis stares at the flower in hand, moving to press it firmly against the inside front page, closing it with a tight squeeze.

"O-Okay," he finally says, looking between her and the book in his hands. "Then I will."

Lady Lunafreya's smile widens.

He quite likes it when she smiles.

* * *

There is no doubt in Ardyn's mind that Ravus, ever observant, has determined at least some fraction of his overarching ambition – that of his intent to fluster his lady sister by means of presenting the Chosen King as but a puppet of darkness. But the man is no threat to him, his claim to nobility and title but a gesture of good faith on behalf of the empire to keep the citizens of Tenebrae in check. That smile falling from his face, the chancellor regards his right hand with but a touch of bitterness, pins and needles _still_ dancing across his skin from the force of the divines' power in Lunafreya's touch. He prides himself on being a man of tremendous patience – as has been evidenced throughout the last several decades – but the determination in the Oracle's words have served to unnerve him, if only a bit.

Regardless, as she and Noctis are now, the gods stand little chance.

Returning to their rooms, the chancellor is disappointed to find that the boy is not where he had left him. There is naught in the manor, nor in Tenebrae, that would do much to snag his attention save the Oracle herself, and it is with that thought that Ardyn has answered his own question.

His is a weary sigh as he meanders the halls, occasionally finding himself quite taken with a painting or the sight of the nation's rolling hills out one of the many windows. Those hills had once appeared to have been spun of gold, the wheat tall and threatening to swallow the people who wandered therein. His lip twitches. Such a shame that the kingdom of Tenebrae – let alone the rest of Eos – shall soon be naught but _black_.

The terms of his immediate departure have been quite clear, and while the chancellor has no reason to trust Ravus, he neither has reason to believe the man will betray him. He is a man of decorum and dedication, unlike Ardyn himself, placing his sister and her needs far and above his own. If he so much as suspects that the chancellor will raise hand against Lunafreya, he will keep his mouth shut and his head down.

That Ardyn knows he can count on. His persistent unpredictability as both a politician and a scion of the scourge have assured as much.

"I'm afraid we must take our leave, Noctis," he says and descends the spiral stairway, breaking into a grin as both his ward and the Oracle appear through the entrance to the garden. The boy holds in his hands a small book, surely a token of affection granted him by the lady herself. _Clever girl._ "Collect your things, quickly. We needn't burden our generous hosts with our presence any longer."

The instruction is followed without question or hesitation, lean black shape ascending to the higher floors of the manor, leaving the chancellor and the Oracle to revel in one another's company.

Ardyn fixes her with a gentle look, backs of his fingers just grazing a smooth cheek. As he thought. The irritation is next to nothing, no more than a tickle, indicating that the strength of her touch is thoroughly dependent upon the will of the gods themselves. How terribly pathetic that she need rely on them so.

Though she does not move, the downward shift in her expression says what she will not: _Do not touch me._

His hand lingers but a moment longer before falling away. There's little need to provoke her in this moment. His words and actions have had their desired effect, both upon her and darling Noctis.

Very soon, the boy will come to him with questions.

The thrum of an engine roars loud beyond the manor's doors, Lunafreya momentarily taken aback by the closeness and familiarity of the sound. The carrier, as expected, and right on time.

"I must thank you, my dear, for the enlightening evening." Ardyn tips his hat, head bowed just enough to catch her notice, a wicked thrill running through him like the charge of stampeding dualhorns. "It has been a pleasure. Pray don't forget what we discussed."

She looks abruptly ill as her chest expands with breath, taking but a moment's pause before she spits back, foregoing all pleasantries: "I won't."

Noctis appears then, bags in hand, looking between them as though he knows he's gone and missed something important. Ardyn pats him on the shoulder, ushering him toward the doors. They open, the sound of heavy machinery an absolutely deafening sound in the foyer, the chancellor's hat very nearly swept away as an artificial wind blows. He grips it by the brim, still smiling.

"A carrier?" Noctis manages to shout, arm raised to shield his face from the gusts. "What about the train? _Ardyn_ , where are we going?"

The queries go ignored, Ardyn's boots producing a near silent sound as he steps upon the thick metal of the carrier's lip, scarves whipping wildly as he turns to regard his charge.

"Why, to Formouth Garrison. _Where else?"_

* * *

Sweat slicks his brow, and it is in that moment that Cor Leonis truly knows apprehension. A reckless and violent youth had conditioned him against it, against the likes of fear itself at the hand of any man, but nothing the fates had thrown his way could have prepared him for this.

The echo of his boots upon hallway floors feel strangely distant, as though he is not quite in his own head, though still in full control of his actions. As he walks, the Marshal lifts a hand, fingers curling into his palm, and he swears that he can see himself full-circle, observing as though having been somehow removed from the shell that is his body. Cor shakes his head and the sight clears, a palpable uptick in his heart rate felt beneath his skin.

No, he thinks, seeking to talk himself down. On this day, he returns to Lucis bearing good news, certainly the best that the kingdom has had in many years.

Dark walls seem to close in on the Marshal as he moves, pace quickening. The man swallows around a lump in his throat, growling quietly as if to prove to himself that, yes, he still has the means to speak. His hands press flush to the double doors engraved with the crest of Lucis, pushing until they give way to grant him passage. There, visible from his place on the threshold, His Highness can be seen in the high-backed seat of his study, curtains drawn and lights dimmed, the monarch's hand pressed against his eyes as if to ward away the light.

"Highness," Cor begins, and King Regis stirs, appearing to have dozed off behind his desk. The older man fixes the Marshal with an apologetic look, an empty smile forming on his lips. "Your Highness, I bring news from Duscae."

Another slaying of Glaives is what the king anticipates. It's written plainly on his face, expression growing dour as he draws a weary breath, looking perhaps far more haggard than the Marshall has ever seen him. Over the last few years, the king's strength – as well as his health – has declined greatly, days innumerable spent laid up in his bedchambers, tended to by the Citadel's royal physicians, each of whom had come to the same basic conclusion: His Highness' time is running out, the Wall taxing his body and mind more than ever.

Cor finds himself staring at the floor, resolve strengthening as he lifts his eyes to the king, right arm brought up and over his chest with a bow.

"King Regis –" The man straightens in his chair, giving the Marshal his full attention at the mention of his name. "– Prince Noctis is _alive._ "


	8. A Game of Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis and the chancellor depart from Cartanica by way of a proper imperial ship, making their way to Formouth Garrison in Leide. King Regis, still in shock by the prospect that his heir and only son may well be alive, reflects upon his actions in Tenebrae some seventeen years ago, and seeks to place his trust wholly in the gods. Ever suspicious of her brother's behavior, Lady Lunafreya corners him and determines the truth as to the distance he has elected to place between them.

Even without consulting a map or an atlas, it is well known that Tenebrae and Leide are several days' journey from one another, and thus had his skepticism begun to form. The MT carrier was, as stated in the transparency of the name, designed for the long-distance transport of magitek infantry units and armors, not for passengers seeking to travel from place to place. The ship's appearance had been less of a surprise than Ardyn's insistence that they bypass the tedium of the train, for, while Niflheim was not well known for its comforts, the chancellor himself was a man who settled for no less than what he thought he deserved.

It seemed odd to Noctis that his uncle would be so easily satisfied with the stiff, uncomfortable innards of a military transport.

But the skepticism is short-lived, and they make it as far as Cartanica before a proper airship intercepts the pair to carry them across the sea and the remainder of the way to Leide.

The interior of the ship itself is nothing new to Noctis, the majority of the empire's aircraft bearing the same basic color scheme – white and red and grey and gold – and layout. All the same, an attendant heavily insists on showing them to the journey's living space, and Ardyn is happy to accept the offer while Noctis himself finds it rather unnecessary.

Bags fall to the floor in the front room, and Noctis is quick to remove his boots and kick them off into a corner as the attendant requests that they inform her if she can be of assistance, the double doors shutting behind her with a click. The older man takes to tossing his hat on the nearby coffee table, sinking dramatically into one of the gaudy red velvet chairs that, Noctis thinks, suit him rather well. His head falls against the back, and Ardyn's tired sigh is one that has been ingrained into his memory as too familiar a sound, one he had most often heard as a boy at the end of days during which the chancellor had been made to sit in meetings for hours on end.

The one thing that he _loathed_ about the position, he said, was the obligation of listening to other people talk. Said it made him antsy.

Noctis is quick to grin, settling himself on the matching sofa. Knees spread apart, he bends at the waist to rest his forearms on them, fingers loosely intertwined as he muses.

While not directly involved in military affairs, Ardyn certainly has an impressive amount of influence on their operations, what with being so close to the emperor. It goes without saying that he's worked long and hard to ensure that innumerable politicians within the empire are wary of him, if not outright afraid. Noctis has seen it in the eyes of governors and councilmen and senators alike, their own apprehension and the man's ruthless reputation serving to do the bulk of the work so that he need not lift a finger. It can't hurt, either, that he seeks to put forth such a startlingly jovial facade.

Really, it's all a bit off-putting when he thinks about it.

Golden eyes shift to one side, surveying the other man with a quiet reverence. For all his flaws – he regards the cruel underhandedness of his dealings with the havocfang first and foremost – Ardyn _has_ been good to him, and Noctis isn't quite able to picture his life without the man.

"Are you asleep?" he ventures, tenting his fingers.

"No, not yet." A stifled yawn follows and Noctis smiles faintly, swallowing the need to poke fun at him for sounding like such an old man. "Perhaps you need something?"

Dark hair tickles the end of his nose with a shake of his head. "No, nothing in particular comes to mind."

He recalls then the notebook gifted him by Lady Lunafreya, crossing to dig through his things to fetch it and find a pen. He's careful as it opens, skipping the first page so that the sylleblossom stays where he pressed it.

"Now, when _did_ you find time to sneak off to the station giftshop?"

Ardyn's cracked an eye at him, looking as though he may drift off to sleep at any moment.

"I didn't," Noctis says, careful to mask his jitters. "It was a gift from Lady Lunafreya. A journal."

"Hm."

The tip of the pen presses to paper, a faint dot left behind as he lifts it, suddenly unsure as to what he ought to write. She had asked that he take the book, keep it with him, fill its pages and send it back to Tenebrae as a means of correspondence between them, but it occurs to Noctis then that the lady had not provided him with any further specifics. What did she want him to write in it? His travel ledgers? Exercise routines? Meal plans? It's all so strange to him now, for he has never bothered to keep a journal of any kind, let alone write letters to anyone. There had never been any need. The people he knew and needed to know were, for the most part, present in Gralea and throughout Niflheim, if not frequent visitors.

He stares at the blank page for several minutes, instrument poised to write a number of times before gently closing the cover. It would be a waste to write something of no importance and have to tear pieces from such a beautiful book. No, more than that, he wants their first written correspondence to have real _meaning_ , and he's unsure as to why. They've only just met.

Noctis leans into the back of the sofa, swimming somewhere between confusion and a strange sense of longing he can't place. He looks to Ardyn, now asleep, observing the steady rise and fall of the man's chest for a moment before deciding that he himself could do with a good nap, for travel is hard on the body.

The notebook is left on the table beside Ardyn's hat, hands shoved lazily into the pockets of his trousers as he relaxes, spine curving in a visible slouch. He regards one of the doors that leads to the hallway and their rooms. A glance is spared to the dozing chancellor, and Noctis smirks.

"Crazy old man."

As Noctis quietly closes the door behind him, he doesn't see Ardyn grin.

* * *

Cor's revelation had been nothing short of miraculous, but there is still the matter of determining the validity of the statement, however reliable the Marshal himself may be. With news so startling and hopeful, Regis finds himself immeasurably grateful that the man had elected to return to Insomnia himself to deliver it in person. All the same, he's sworn Cor to secrecy – not that he needed to – until further evidence of the claim has opportunity to come to light.

Regis has spent several days now questioning himself, wondering if – were they to meet – he would be able to recognize his son, now a grown man. The king takes pieces of himself, his wife, their parents, in his mind in an effort to puzzle together the face of his only son. Would he be as tall and lean as his father? Would he bear the gentle eyes and disposition of dear Aulea? He hopes so, prays to the gods on end that Noctis is indeed alive and well, healthy and safe.

Pleasurable and haunting as his thoughts have been, Regis is made to stop himself short before his mind can get too far ahead. He would be loathe to discover this to be but a case of mistaken identity, forced to mourn his dear Noctis yet again.

But by the Six, he has so much for which he must apologize. So much time that needs recovering, though the king's own is growing terribly short.

Even now, plagued by printed reports of skirmishes against the empire cropping up throughout Leide and Cleigne, the king marches himself through the day of Tenebrae's fall, forward and back, as if seeking to uncover something that he may have missed. His duty, truly, had been to his only heir, his beloved son. But, being an honorable man, he could not find it in himself to turn his back on Queen Sylva and her own children, and so he had fought, eager to repay the kindness and loyalty of Lucis' closest friend and political ally.

The troopers had stormed the manor much like a great flood, glass sprinkling as rain across the floors as they sought after the royals, cutting down all who barred their path. The attack had been expected far sooner following Sylva's refusal to agree to the emperor's terms the year prior, and perhaps they had all grown rather complacent in believing that retribution would not follow. They had been so very wrong.

The king lingers as but a ghost over his own shoulder as he runs, catching sight of a tuft of unruly hair, small hands seeking secure purchase in his cloak. Amidst the taste of smoke and the screams, there is a moment of fleeting peace as he looks upon his boy, gentle and kind, blocking out the rest of the world as though the invasion were but a bad dream. But the magitek troopers are uncanny and swift, their weapons nearly upon the pair as they reach the open manor doors. It is with little hesitation that Regis turns then, believing himself to have warped his young son to safety as he returns to fell the daemonic machines.

In urgency, he seeks out the Fleuret family when the immediate danger has passed, urged by the queen to return home to Lucis, protect himself, his son, and his nation. Her children are adamant in remaining at her side, and Regis tastes guilt and smoke on his tongue as she insists once again, promising him that all will be done in accordance with the gods' design. As more magitek carriers dot the distant sky behind the great window of Sylva's throne, Regis flees in search of his son.

There is little time to search, anxiety spiking the longer his hands remain empty, devoid of the warmth of Noctis' small form. Regis cannot find him, his son – _his son_ – and guilt swallows him whole as the Crownsguard are made to peel him from the bridge where the prince had last been seen. They are swift to depart Tenebrae as the carriers land and the fires rage on, the king left abruptly empty and cold without his son sleeping soundly in his arms. 

* * *

_"Ravus!"_

His name upon her lips is far more forceful than she cares for, but they've not spoken in days now, and her brother has been as easy to pin down as smoke. The man moves like wildfire, blends into the stark white walls of the manor as though he is a coeurl masked by deep green foliage. Lunafreya is a patient woman – be it as Oracle or princess or simply herself – but seeking to speak with her brother these last several days has proven a nuisance, and she's come to the steadfast conclusion that he _is_ avoiding her.

It may well be but the echo of the structure itself amplifying her voice so, but she knows better. Patience has waned, snapped like a thin bit of elastic, and she has _shouted_ him down, sending his usually tight knit brows soaring toward his hairline. In that moment, he looks so very much like their father, and Lunafreya aches.

He rights himself quickly, ever a man unwilling to allow himself to be easily read, even by his own flesh and blood. With his lean figure casting a faint shadow across the wall – he is by one of the windows, gloved left hand lingering on the glass but a moment before it falls flush again to his side – Ravus remains rooted in place, fixing Lunafreya with a set of mismatched eyes that betray him more than she has ever seen.

The leather of his glove is cool against the pads of her fingers, and while a slight scowl buries itself in the sharp lines of his face, her free hand rises to touch his cheek, her own expression that of regret for having raised her voice at him. She's never been good at staying angry for very long.

 _"Ravus,"_ she says, gently this time, leaning close to press an ear flush to the front of his button-down coat. The steady beating of his heart does her good, and the Oracle imagines that the pair of them, close as they are as brother and sister, exist along the same wavelength, not quite matched but never too far apart. His right hand presses into her hair, his touch warm and welcome. "Ravus... Brother, I must know, what –"

"You need not concern yourself with my affairs, Lunafreya." The words are sharp, intended to ward her away like hazardous thorns on the stem of a rose. The hand falls away and she _hears_ his heartbeat stall a moment, pulling away to stare up into his eyes. "You would do well to focus on your responsibilities as Oracle and leave all else in my hands."

 _"Responsibilities?"_ Lunafreya parrots, and feels yet another twinge of frustration begin to build within her. It is as she thought. He is keeping secrets from her out of some misplaced sense of obligation, overlooking her as little more than a figurehead to be protected and preserved. As if she cannot bear the weight of both her duties and Ravus' own apparent turmoil. "If you recall..." She begins carefully but elects to abandon caution as the words have passed her lips. The Oracle refuses to be play the role of the unseeing. "It was Mother who bid us work together for the good of Tenebrae. You cannot shoulder the responsibility of a nation on your own."

While he does not force her away, it is certain that he wishes to, if only to keep from being subjected to further talk of the late queen and Oracle. The day of their mother's passing had been almost too much for him to bear, and it is with the furrowing of her own brow that Lunafreya herself sinks back into that feeling of utter helplessness, uncertain as to whether or not he would make it through another night with his injuries.

The grip she has on his left hand remains firm as before, and it is with great care that she takes to peeling away the glove, soft white leather too easily giving way to the cold, unfeeling metal of Ravus' artificial arm. From her peripheral, she can see the disdain on his face as he turns to look elsewhere.

"Brother, I _know_ that you had audience with the chancellor. And I believe I know... _why_ you have been keeping it from me."

Ardyn had managed to both frighten and puzzle her, and she expects – no, she _knows_ – that Ravus had taken careful notice of her distress in the aftermath and sought to confront the man as to the precise nature of their discussion. A risky move on his part, for Tenebrae is no more to the empire than a trinket to be toyed with and discarded at will, and upsetting the chancellor too grievously could very well come at the cost of more bloodshed.

"I shall depart on the morrow. I know not when I may return."

His lack of outright denial wholly confirms her suspicions, head bowed between them with an air of mourning. He had certainly gone to Ardyn in her defense, likely threatened him with something of great importance, and now the pair of them were to be separated as punishment.

"How–?" Lunafreya stops herself, still clutching his cold hand. She shakes. There is little to be said now. It is done. The chancellor has made his decision, and their fates now take them in opposite directions: The Oracle will stand tall against the empire, and her beloved brother – her lifelong protector – will be made hound to serve them.


	9. The Prodigal Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the behest of his insistent handler, Noctis continues his work to perfect the daemonification of wild beasts. In Insomnia, the combined intelligence of both the Crownsguard and the Kingsglaive serve to grant the Lucian Council and King Regis with startling news: The Prince has returned to Lucis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I didn't actually watch Kingslglaive until this last week, but since I've already come this far with things, I'm not going to change the way I wrote the Tenebraen invasion. That's why this is an AU. Shit changes. Anyway... Carry on.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking that – should you fall prey to foul beasts – I will find myself the least bit _obligated_ to drag your lifeless remains back to the garrison." Ardyn smiles grimly, set on observing the scurrying reapertails that linger not far from their perch. "I'm rather serious, Noctis. I've no intention of soiling my cuffs. Do _pay attention_ to what it is you're doing."

A response is hardly called for, and so he does not provide one, a simple dagger clasped firm in one hand while the Starscourge crackles in the other. The advance is slow and steady as he crouches, winding behind bushes and boulders while remaining ever aware of the chancellor's eyes against his back.

The garrison looms behind them in the distance, the airship just barely visible over the lip of the rugged walls. They've been at this for _days_ now, Noctis having traded out his sleek black suit for a basic set of army fatigues, working his way through various routines Ardyn has concocted with which to test his abilities. It feels very much like he's started all over again, as though he is but a teenager with something to prove to his uncle, and, in a sense, he is correct.

This time, however, Noctis must prove himself capable of creating _and_ imfusing daemons with the scourge, and not just amplifying his natural talents.

Suffice to say, Ardyn will not permit him to stop until he is satisfied.

A seed of irritation sprouts in Noctis, a low sound coming from the chancellor lounging atop a rock some distance behind him. The bastard is _humming_ , acting as though this is all a game for him to sit back and observe.

The worst part is that he's right.

The cluster of reapertails have yet to notice him, even with Ardyn's irritating contribution. They wander in the scorching heat as if purposeless, and Noctis waits, seeking to single out but one for this exercise so as to avoid too much of a fight. He is patient, lingering within a large bristly bush that feels very much like a haystack on his skin until one of them draws close, inspecting a nearby hole for lizards as the others gradually widen their own search perimeter.

He draws a slow, deep breath... and _moves._

It hears the crackle of the bush, and Noctis warps as the beast prepares to strike, throwing the dagger with pinpoint precision. There's a hoarse shriek from the reapertail, the creature's stinger now pinned to the earth, granting him a viable opening with which to strike. He feels weightless as he closes the distance with an overarching jump, hand falling flush against the hard outer shell of the thrashing thing. The fire courses down his arm, the scourge binding the pair of them for several long, agonizing seconds. A series of pathways appear in his mind, reminiscent of a web, and that flash of harsh black and violet light streaks along each strand until the whole of his body _burns_. It's worse this time than it's ever been before, and the ache of it all makes him think that the whole of his body will dissolve into nothing.

When the world comes back into focus, his feet are planted firmly on the ground, dagger dislodged from the tail of the now massive insect – monstrous, at least _twice_ its original size, growling quietly from a toothy mouth set between jagged mandibles – slumped to one side in the dirt and dripping with miasma. Noctis removes his hand in a state of shock, sweat sticking the shirt to his back, chest screaming as he struggles to catch his breath. His blackened fingertips tingle with electricity, giving off smoke in the light of the sun.

_What the... hell is...?_

The slow, steady sound of clapping hands is what meets Noctis when he turns back to his uncle, stumbling to the ground as Ardyn places a hand beneath his chin.

 _"Oh, you miraculous boy."_ Gods, the elation in his eyes is _mesmerizing_ , and Noctis can barely recall the last time he witnessed the man looking at him with such apparent pride.

He needn't pay the man any more mind to understand what he's thinking: The benefit of such power will shortly outweigh the consequences of using it. While that may well be true, Noctis hardly finds that to be the case now. The throbbing ache in his arm and chest has spread, little flickers of white lite blooming in his vision as he slumps into the dirt on his back, too fatigued so even lift a hand to block the sun from his eyes. He's tired enough to sleep anywhere, and seriously considers drifting off right here at the side of a smoldering newborn daemon when he has the sensation of floating, head propped up against his uncle's shoulder with a small sound of discomfort.

This sort of gesture was _common_ once. When he was small and the old nightmares still fresh, he would scramble out of bed in a hurry to find Ardyn, more often than not waiting out the late night hours in his study. Wordlessly would Noctis press his clammy little hands against the man's arm for attention, climb up into his lap and huddle against his uncle's chest. They would sit there for what felt like forever, the chancellor's hand carding through Noctis' hair until, at long last, he drifted off to sleep.

Eyes open – he wasn't even aware that he had closed them – flick up to Ardyn's face then, hat and coat noticeably missing. And Noctis realizes too late that they're safe within the walls of the garrison, a cold cloth pressed to his brow and fingers in his hair.

"When you're through," Ardyn whispers, and there's a real fondness there that does not present itself often, "not even the Kings of Old will stand a chance."

* * *

Paper shakes slightly in the king's trembling hands, one page coming to overlap another time and again as he surveys the photographs with shock and delight. He's uncertain as to how Cor has managed to procure these images, but he dismisses the query as irrelevant, a faint but sincere smile cutting its way through the thick hair of his beard. The important part is that – if these images are to be believed – his beloved Noctis is indeed alive and present at Formouth Garrison just a stone's throw from Insomnia.

The Marshal stands on ceremony, refusing to smile or offer up any unnecessary commentary for they are in the presence of the Lucian Council. Their voices overlap in disbelief, some asserting that the man in the photographs is _indeed_ the spitting image of His Highness, while others voice their doubt and skepticism. It matters little to Regis. Seeing the shape of that young man's face so distinctly had set the king's weary heart at ease. He had breathed but a sigh of relief, a quiet blessing to the gods for their grace, and had chosen to let the remainder of the meeting take its course while he observed in contented silence.

"This is the _garrison_ in Leide," one councilmember says, stabbing at an image with a finger. "And that... _That_ looks like–! Marshal Leonis, are you absolutely certain these timestamps are _correct?"_

Regis regards the man with a twinkle in his eye as Cor nods, insisting that the photographs were indeed captured not two days ago.

"The Kingslglaive and Crownsguard have both verified the validity of the information and found it to be trustworthy. We've also discovered myriad signs of daemons within the areas outlying the garrison. We expect that the Imperials have taken to running trials out of Leide of late, though we're yet uncertain as to _why._ "

"What of his eyes? Certainly, this man appears to bear a striking resemblance to both His Highness and the late Queen, but his _eyes_ are–"

"They are Aulea's." Regis stares straight ahead. "Noctis has always had his mother's eyes, her smile. It is him." He swallows, regarding Cor with a gentle nod of thanks. "My son has returned to Lucis."

_"Highness!"_

Another voice interjects at random, doors to the chamber opening with the unmistakable sound of great effort, all eyes turned to the man who had deigned to intrude. He is young, tall, has made quite a name for himself in this war, for his prowess as a member of the Glaives. While many members of council appear perturbed, the king regards the man with full attention, greying hair appearing to shine in the light of the room as he straightens in his seat.

The glaive doubles over, out of breath, hands pressed against his knees as he heaves, looking up the steps and into the eyes of the Lucian monarch.

"Your Highness... w-we've just received word from Commander Drautos." He swallows, hair falling over his shoulder. " _Chancellor Izunia_ has been spotted at the garrison gates."


	10. A Tale of Lies and Broken Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis, operating as advisor to His Majesty, King Regis of Lucis, is privy to the unease within the Lucian government, particularly when reports arrive of Ardyn Izunia's presence in the region. As a means of determining the validity of the information he has received, King Regis elects to permit the chancellor and his retinue into Insomnia to discuss the end of the war with Niflheim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I've been a bit slower with this chapter, but I got stuck doing other things, and I do have at least two exams before the end of the month, so please excuse me if the same is said of the following chapter. Once this class has ended, I will have more time to dedicate to writing.

The sudden appearance of Chancellor Izunia has proven to be a very different beast in and of itself. Within hours of this initial intelligence arriving before the king, a second startling report had been delivered to the Citadel, that the Norduscaean Blockade had quickly been reinstated by the empire. It only stood to reason, clearly, that the man's unannounced presence in Lucis was to further isolate those soldiers in service to the crown, and cut them off from assistance on both sides of the barrier.

Divide and conquer is, clearly, the strategy at play here, and yet, there is little for the kingdom to do but watch and wait.

Ignis knows quite well how startling the events of late have been to all employed unto His Highness, himself included, but his eyes remain unclouded and attention to detail unerring. The king himself, while certainly troubled by this unforeseen possibility of further political tension, has been noticeably less somber of late, often lingering the halls where the prince himself had once resided so very long ago. He expects that the monarch has been reminiscing, hopeful that, soon, those days past may serve to make themselves a lasting part of the future.

The king lingers in such halls even now, the young advisor having had the mind with which to locate him at the behest of his superiors.

"Your Majesty." His tone is even, respectful – not only of the man's status as king, but of that of a father given reason with which to hope, and a man who has been good to him. "The Marshal requests an audience within the Council Chambers."

The fondness in those faded blue eyes is stored away, the steely resolve of a man sworn to his people again replacing itself upon the weathered face. Ignis waits, intent on remaining at the king's back in the event of the unthinkable, and falls in behind him.

Ideally, the man before him would be Prince Noctis, now grown and preparing to take up his father's mantle as king and protector of the kingdom. Fate had clearly insisted otherwise, and so it is the back of an aging king that Ignis watches, as per his duty and promise.

Silence is all that passes between them, not a word exchanged, for the young advisor has neither place nor knowledge with which to converse with His Highness on the matter. What little information he had been given was for the purpose of seeking out the man and delivering the request, as he has so done.

There is a palpable unease as the doors to the council chambers part to grant them passage, and by the looks plastered on the faces of those in attendance, Ignis has a silent venture that the unknown matter is already in discussion. King Regis has not chance to take to the steps nor seat himself when both the Marshal and His Highness' Shield approach, the latter offering up a piece of parchment with a deep set scowl.

The page is observed in silence – once, twice, three times – before the king lifts his gaze to the pair of men before him.

"It is as written," Claurus Amicitia confims, looking far more suspicious than per usual. "Chancellor Izunia seeks an audience with Your Majesty at the earliest available opportunity to discuss terms of _peace_."

Ignis feels his heart skip a beat. He's not had chance to meet the man, but his reputation certain precedes him, and in a most ominous way. Ardyn Izunia is known every bit for his cunning as he is his abysmal outerwear, but it is the former which has served to cast such great unease upon the room.

It had been the hands of Verstael Besithia spurred on by the workings of Ardyn Izunia's mind that the magitek infantry been brought to life to wreak havoc upon Eos. Such dark knowledge could only have come from within a monster presenting himself as a man.

It's certain that none present would trust the chancellor so far as they could throw him, but with daemonic experiments now cropping up in Leide – no doubt _his_ doing – and the blockade reinstated, even Ignis knows better than to scoff at the unlikely chance that Chancellor Izunia truly seeks to discuss peace. His presence alone serves as but a small declaration of the Empire's power and carries much weight.

"What say you?"

Ignis takes pause, considering the options available to the kingdom, though they be but few. On the one hand, the discussion with the chancellor could well prove fruitful, perhaps staying the further spilling of blood and preserving the people of Lucis. On the other, it may well be a trap, a means with which to infiltrate Insomnia and further disrupt what order they've managed to maintain. Regardless, the answer is clear as day, and the kingdom cannot afford to take any chances.

"Certainly, the man is a frightful tactician, and in close proximity to the Emperor," Ignis says thoughtfully, chin in hand. "Regardless of his intentions, however, our safest option is to hear him out, and thus avoid the perception that Lucis is unreasonable."

He needn't see the satisfaction on the king's face to know he's made the correct assessment. The Shield's growing unease is evidence enough.

"It shall be so," His Highness says, addressing the room this time. The tension's weight increases. He turns to a weathered man poised at the room's edge. "Commander Drautos, see to it that the chancellor and his retinue are granted safe passage into Insomnia at the earliest convenience."

* * *

It had been little surprise to the chancellor when messengers of the king – a small collection of armed Glaives – had presented themselves at the garrison gates, bearing a letter from the Lucian ruler himself. Ardyn had accepted the invitation personally, grazing the wax of the blackened seal and sigil with an unsettling smile that had seen his own mortal guard break out into a light sweat.

It was certain that the Glaives had come to scout out each face of the imperial guard in hopes of catching sight of Noctis again, and it was with such anticipation that the chancellor had instructed the boy to await his summons within the garrison.

"And if they seek your life?"

Ardyn had chuckled, mussing the boy's jet black hair. "Have you so _little_ confidence in me, Noctis?"

He'd taken a great deal of pleasure in watching the Glaives' eyes grow wide with shock when their lost prince had at last filed into the vehicle beside the chancellor, unperturbed by their stares and focused solely upon the task at hand.

While the lengthy trek through Leide with an entourage of enemy soldiers had been tedious to say the least, a rush of adrenaline had filled the Accursed when the walls were at last breached and the miles-long bridge into the heart of the Crown City was laid bare before them. He'd been granted audience with King Regis but once prior, shortly after the passing of the previous monarch, albeit under the guise of a meager Lucian border patrol officer. How satisfying that, now, Ardyn had been delivered the chance to face His Highness as himself.

The vehicle comes to a stop at the steps of the Citadel, Noctis' unease palpable enough to slice clean with a blade, and a hand rests on the boy's shoulder as if to still his quivering heart. As the chancellor moves to step out and onto the flagstones of the courtyard, Noctis seizes him by the sleeve, fear brimming in the boy's wide gold eyes, and he looks very much like he had on the day Ardyn had explained to him the events of Tenebrae.

"Remember: _They left you for dead_ _,_ " he says, and the boy breathes shakily, gives a curt nod and steps out of the car, looking none the worse for wear.

_Good boy._

"Chancellor." Ardyn bites back a knowing smirk, recalling with great satisfaction the last time he'd heard that voice. The man himself – so much older than he ought to appear – had been sprawled out before him on the pavement, battered, bleeding, and near death as his ancestor had sought to put an end to the Accursed's wicked game. "You honor us."

While the king addresses him, his focus remains upon Noctis, looking him over head to toe with a familiarity that – had Ardyn any capacity for sympathy – may well have brought a tear to his eye.

He brushes past the boy, who takes several steps back with a slight bow of his head, and there's a flicker of rage in Regis' eyes at seeing his son beholden to an enemy nation.

Ardyn _revels in it_ _._

"I beg to differ, Your Majesty, for it is by _your grace alone_ that these negotiations are to take place."

Regis lingers on the steps several moments longer, looking between Ardyn and the boy several times before he makes a vague gesture for them to follow, and the chancellor does so at a respectable distance, Noctis at his heels.

"I trust," the king begins, "that your journey from Niflheim has not been fraught with much trouble."

"None whatsoever, Majesty. It has been quite an _enlightening_ little venture."

It is a game of words they play, and while it may appear to others present to be but polite pre-negotiation exchange between two conflicting nations, those astute enough to pay mind to the conversation are certain to know better. One man, roughly Noctis' own age with sharp, bespectacled green eyes, catches the chancellor's attention in particular.

The halls of the Citadel are truly a sight to behold, and one that sparks a smoldering irritation in Ardyn's chest. That Somnus – _dear Somnus_ – would have achieved so very much in the wake of his underhanded betrayal is utterly infuriating. And it's too long that the past lingers at the forefront of his mind, blinding him to all else until Noctis wordlessly grounds him with a touch, now at the heart of the Council Chambers.

The king takes his seat, insisting with a hand that the chancellor be at his right. Ardyn complies, and the boy lingers at his back, surveying the room with a muted unease rivaling the quakes of the Archean.

"Forgive me being so forward," Regis says once the council members themselves, too, are seated, "but what are these terms that His Excellency sends to our door?"

To the point, as always. Ardyn lifts a hand, a young woman approaching to lay but a small stack of papers before the Lucian king. The last time he had entered into negotiations with a foreign land, things had not gone well for _them_ , but the chancellor himself had come away from the table but a year later with a tremendous victory. One that he still holds.

"Lucis is to willingly surrender possession of all territories beyond the Crown City to Niflheim. In exchange, His Excellency will provide for those within as he would his own people, the blockades will disintegrate, and the old trade routes will again resume."

Perhaps he's too pleasant in the delivery, for the king fixes Ardyn with a look of open uncertainty.

"That is _all?"_ Of course he is suspicious. Niflheim has not oft been so straightforward in their desires or dealings, playing quite the underhanded game at Ardyn's behest.

"Why, Your Majesty, I come to your Insomnia as but a _messenger_. The terms which I have presented you today are as per the entirety of my instruction from His Excellency alone." Ardyn smiles, sly and feigning warmth. He feels Noctis bristle behind him. "What further motivation could I _possibly_ possess?"

* * *

Throughout the entirety of the discussion, Noctis had fought back the urge to scream. He'd sought to distract himself by evaluating the council members, to focus on his breathing, to understand precisely why the presence of the Kingsglaive commander filled him with such a strange sense of nostalgia, but nothing had worked. When the niceties had at last subsided, it was with great relief that he had fled from the room at Ardyn's behest — "pull it together" was what he'd said — and now finds himself wandering the courtyard of the Citadel feeling very much lost.

It had been explained to him many years ago, just after his seventeenth birthday, that he had been but a child battered and on the brink of death when the chancellor came across him. Yes, Ardyn had known of Noctis' standing as Prince of Lucis, and sought to repair the damage done to the boy's body by the invasion, but by the time he'd awakened from his coma, news had flooded the Star: The young prince was dead, his life lost in Tenebrae.

 _"And you didn't think to take me back?"_ Noctis scowls and can see the look of indignation on his own face. Ardyn's expression, of course, remains passive and unperturbed.

 _"Noctis, think on it: The chancellor of an enemy nation arrives at the gates of Insomnia bearing the broken body of the prince. What conclusion would_ you _have drawn from that?"_

The stunned silence that lingers between them in the vision serves only to twist his insides into knots, and he feels as though he may well retch across the flagstones. He sees Ardyn stand then, a strange look on his face — that of conflict — as he moves to sit beside Noctis, pulling him close. It's been so long, but he can still feel the way the man had stroked his hair as a boy, fearful of the dark and seeking protection from nightmares in his uncle's great arms.

It had angered him at the time, but Ardyn's words had rang true from the onset. Lucis would certainly have launched an assault upon the empire, questioned the chancellor ad infinitum, blamed him for the damage what had befallen their future king. He's unfamiliar with the methods of the Lucians, his own people, but Noctis has little doubt that, even had he been returned home as a gesture of faith and goodwill, Ardyn would have ultimately suffered the wrath of nations.

 _"My boy, they pronounced you_ dead _not six weeks after the invasion. The rescue efforts ceased. His Majesty immortalized your grave himself."_

_Noctis?_

"I had thought I might find you here."

He turns slowly, in time to see a black umbrella to pop open above his head. The man before him had been among the king's retainers — his _father's_ retainers — and there's a lingering familiarity in his striking green eyes that he's not hidden well. Noctis eyes him up and down, brow drawn into a firm scowl, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he straightens, willing his unease into silence.

"Yeah?" he replies, facing the other man in full as if to challenge him. "And for what purpose, exactly?"

The man lifts a hand to straighten the glasses upon his nose, returns Noctis' investigative glance with one of his own, and the seriousness of his face seems to lapse into something more akin to regret and longing. All the same, he clears his throat, offering a hand.

"Ignis Scientia," the man says simply. "Advisor to the Crown."

Noctis cocks his head, eyeing the gloved hand for but a moment before taking it in his own. "Noctis... of Niflheim."

There's a noticeable pain in Ignis' eyes as the words leave him, a subtle twitch of his lips, but neither of them seek to address it. They stand there in the infant rain under the shelter of the umbrella, hands clasped in a moment of mutual understanding that makes Noctis feel as though the entire world has fallen out from beneath him. This man, from his genuine propriety to the mature firmness of his grip, has Noctis feeling abruptly on edge. Nostalgic, even, as though he's spent his whole life missing out on something he can't quite name.

" _Noctis_... A pleasure." In that moment, he sounds an awful lot like Ardyn, and Noctis flinches. "I had wondered if perhaps you would care for a brief tour of the Citadel, but you left the council chambers before I had chance to ask."

How strange. While Lucian by blood, Noctis is in service to both chancellor and emperor of a foreign nation, and one with whom the people of Lucis are currently embroiled in a bitter, centuries-old war. There's little reason for this man to seek his companionship, let alone offer to show him around the most secure building in the whole of Insomnia. Even knowing this, Noctis finds that there is a nagging caught tight in his chest, like a powerful magnet pulling him toward this Ignis, toward the Citadel.

_You must go._

"Suppose there's not much else for me to do," he replies with a shrug, hand dropping back to his side to be placed in a pocket. "At least not until Ardyn decides to find something."

Ignis' expression hasn't changed much, though a modicum of curiosity does go flitting across his face at the mention of the chancellor's name. It's a bad habit he's developed, calling his uncle by name rather than title while out on official business, but it serves to both amuse the older man and unnerve those with whom he has audience.

"I take it the pair of you are close."

"Guess so, yeah." Noctis shrugs again, a bit irked by the fact that the king's advisor follows _behind_ him rather than at his side, still holding the umbrella above their heads. "I mean, he's my uncle, y'know? He raised me."

The other man makes no reply as they ascend the steps of the Citadel, and it is only when they cross the guarded threshold that Ignis makes move to step in front of him. While expected much sooner, it's still sudden, and the advisor does not face Noctis as they stand in the entry, people dressed for business — all bearing the Lucian crest — milling about the wide space as though the pair of them aren't even present.

_Noctis, come. We must have words._

It has gone ignored until now, dismissed as but a figment of his imagination, but now within the towering Citadel walls, the sound of the voice unknown — the pull in the core of his gut — grows louder, stronger, harder for him to dismiss. It's but a quiet voice, barely above a whisper, beckoning him to parts unknown. He fixes Ignis with a look, discerning but a moment later that the other man hears nothing but the atmospheric noise surrounding them.

"...and the council chambers are stationed upstairs next to the— Noct? Is something the matter?"

The prince — _is he really even a prince anymore?_ — turns to the other man, an expression of distinct worry on his face as Noctis steadies himself against the wall. He feels dizzy, lightheaded, colder than he's perhaps ever felt before, beginning at the ends of his fingers. Hands clench, but the chill grows, sweeping up one arm and down the other until he's little recourse left but to grip himself around the middle as his limbs fall numb.

_Noctis._

It's Ignis' warm hands lifting him to his feet, pulling him across the floor and around the corner into a small office just beyond one of the check-in desks. As feeling slowly begins to return, he looks to the king's advisor with wide eyes, swallowing the urge to curl into himself and just cry. Far worse than that, though, is the breaking of his own voice as he seeks so speak.

"Tell me, please: What's wrong?"

 _"Why...?"_ he says, suddenly breathless, and Ignis' face twists in a confused frown. _"Why do I feel..._ _like I know her voice?"_


	11. From the Light Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Regis, having become increasingly suspicious of the Imperial Chancellor during their short visit, seeks to determine the truth of the man's arrival and put a stop to any nefarious plans he may have. Noctis, meanwhile, cannot clear his mind of the mysterious voice which haunts him, and finds himself seeking the source within the Citadel... when he encounters the Lucian Crystal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I may (or may not) have mentioned before, the updates are coming less frequently because I have practical skills examinations at the end of the week, and thus I have to divide my attention to working on those. After Friday, however, I will be free of the curse that is class, and will resume my life as it was three months ago.

Rather blatantly, Regis is utterly _infuriated_ by the audacity of this man — and it has nothing to do with the fact that the chancellor sits at the council table with that smile on his face, making uncomfortable small talk over far too much wine. But, given the uneasiness of the blade upon which Lucis finds itself perched, the king blessedly manages to hold his tongue in check.

This duplicitous serpent has gone and slithered past their defenses in what has been the worst way possible, under the potentially false pretense of delivering unto the Citadel terms of peace in the war with Niflheim. And Regis himself, having been so eager believe in the validity of a proposed peace treaty, had far too easily failed to evaluate the matter with more thought. While the monarch does not doubt that, inevitably, the aging Emperor Aldercapt might well have sought to send envoy to Lucis, he _does_ doubt, however, the truth of the chancellor's words.

_What additional motivation could I possibly possess?_

Plenty, by the look of things, what with experiments on both daemons and beasts cropping up throughout the region en masse; the slaying of Glaives by the dozen; and the miraculous reappearance of the lost prince, long believed dead. He is thoroughly convinced now that Ardyn Izunia was, in some fashion, involved with the invasion of Tenebrae some many years ago, and had seen fit to steal Noctis away to Niflheim. Beyond that, the man's motivations remain fairly cloudy, a hundred different paths present and available to him, and it is those innumerable uncertainties which serve to set the king on edge.

With all of these pieces in play, and when carefully evaluated, Regis is certain that a man the likes of the chancellor has traveled this far for but one thing, and that is _to sow chaos throughout Lucis_ in one form or another.

As Ignis had stated prior, the man is frighteningly deceptive, undoubtedly presenting but a false air of joviality and a haphazard appearance for the sake of luring in and undermining his enemies. That has become quite clear to Regis now that he's spent all of ten minutes seated beside the man, however the revelation may well have come too late, and it is that which he laments above all else.

 _"Oh, dear,"_ he says, and the very sound of the man's voice has become as grating metal upon Regis' patience. "Where _did_ that boy of mine run off to? I had thought he'd be but a moment."

While the chancellor's face is contorted in something convincingly akin to concern, it is the glimmer of his strange amber eyes that continues to blanket the room with such palpable unease. He is aware that, at least to the king, his farce has been recognized, and there can be seen a touch of hope in his expression that Regis will deign to question him as to both the boy's origin and purpose.

 _His boy_ , the serpent says.

Regis steels himself with a number of slow breaths, agonizing though they may be in light of his rising temper. There is something terribly off about the chancellor – _as a man_ more than an imperial politician – and the king determines that his duty is to neutralize such a threat (whether it lie within or beyond the wall), if not simply remove him from the populated confines of the Crown City.

"You have my gratitude, Chancellor Izunia, for coming all this way." A smile is forced to the surface of the monarch's stern face, and the Glaives lining the wall beyond the councilmembers' seats can be seen straightening in preparation to act. Good. They, too, have detected an air of unease. "Yours has been a gracious gesture in these trying times."

"I can assure you, Majesty, I've done _nothing_ to merit your thanks."

Well, at least they can agree on _that_ point.

"You have it all the same." Hands rest flat against the tabletop as the king stands, fixing the chancellor with an expression relaying a lingering apology. "Though I am loathe to ask your patience, I will require ample time to pore over His Excellency's most generous terms of peace alongside my council. You have my apologies for the inconvenience, Chancellor."

Though the man nods, he remains seated, appearing rather entranced by the sight of wine shifting forward and back in his glass, almost as if Regis has not spoken a word. It irritates the king, and he draws breath to insist when the other man fixes him with a smile that makes his very insides _twist._

By the Six, he can't _stand those eyes._

"Oh, you needn't fret over _perceived inconveniences_ , Majesty..."

A lone member of the chancellor's guard moves to the chamber doors as the man raises his glass, parting them to permit a slew of imperial soldiers to file into the room, their weapons levelled to the Glaives and members of the council, all appearing startlingly rigid and immobile. Peace terms _indeed,_ Regis thinks, and stands upright with righteous fury, arm outstretched and seeking to call forth his weapon, but...

_It will not come._

The chancellor, having now kicked his boots up on the council table, merely plucks a small device from within the inner pocket of his coat, takes a sip from his drink, and smiles.

_"We are, after all, just getting started."_

* * *

_"Noctis, wait!"_

As he runs, the world around him is lost in but a strange blur of black and white and colored accents. It is all far to bright and saturated for him to focus on for more than a second, and it makes his nauseous. His body _aches_ , chest heaving, insides feeling as though he's fallen several hundred feet through the air and struck the earth much like in his nightmares. He wants to cease all movement, put a pin in time, lean over one of the many decorative planters and vomit until the space within his skull elects to right itself again.

This voice, the one that calls his name and spears such a powerful sense of intimate familiarity within, ought to mean _nothing_ to him, for he is the _Shade_ , a shadow of a man — _an assassin_ _—_ renowned and feared for his ruthlessness in battle. He is beholden to but one man, the chancellor who plucked an enemy child out of the dust in the midst of a war and raised him when his homeland itself had forsaken and abandoned him. Why, then, does Noctis feel so drawn to this voice and not to the side of the man whom he has sworn to follow and protect?

The scenery before him changes in short bursts, each frame appearing drastically different than the last. Noctis is startled to find himself warping through the halls, movements chaotic and fearful, but bearing all the same eagerness as the pull within his gut that grows stronger with each faltering step.

_Noctis._

He wants so badly to scream, call out to the unknown that he is _here_ and he is _coming_ as quickly as the universe will allow. But he has only sparing amounts of air trapped in his lungs and bile rising up his throat as Ignis _—_ and gods know who else _—_ trail after him.

Another corner is turned, and with such speed that Noctis very nearly finds himself soaring through one of the far walls, his boots leaving obvious scuff marks against the grain of silver-grey paint. An arm is outstretched toward the tile of the floor, seeking to keep him from falling flat, but his wrist buckles beneath him with a sickening crack, and he quickly finds himself sliding down the checkered corridor. Perhaps it is the nausea, or even the very real possibility that he's gone and broken his wrist, but the speed at which Noctis now rockets through the hall is maddening. The floor, the one constant in all of this, drops out from beneath him, giving way to a set of stairs lined with a stunning crimson carpet. He begins to roll in his descent, clutching the damaged arm to his chest for protection, all sense of direction lost as Noctis finds himself spinning wildly out of control.

Each thud of his body against the steps hurts more than the last, little flecks of light bursting from behind his closed eyes. When it feels as though the movement has slowed, he grits his teeth, knowing that it's but a trick of his mind. The only sure sign that he has, indeed, stopped is that of his full weight coming to rest against a wall at the bottom of the stairwell, the headiness and confusion taken several seconds to lighten up.

He blinks, visibly shaken, wrist searing with pain beneath his grasp, staggering to his feet in a dimly lit corridor illuminated only by the light of a great azure stone set some dozen meters before him.

The Crystal of Lucis.

_Noctis._

The voice is beside him now, as though the owner stands at his side, whispering in his ear. On impulse, Noctis turns his head, a chill trickling down his spine when no one is there. He swallows, more confused and startled than perhaps he has ever been, and takes several cautious steps forward, surveying the area for other signs of life with wide golden eyes.

The Crystal is, in a word, _beautiful,_ so much so that he cannot tear his gaze away. The sound of his footfalls is muffled by the carpet, extending from the landing at the stairway's base to that of the stone itself. The room in which it is housed appears to be built in the shape of a dome, the ceiling high above curving in a visible arch. It is almost cavern-like, this part of the Citadel, and it occurs to Noctis then that he has no idea precisely where within the great structure he stands. There are no windows lining the walls, but neither are there any additional doors or hallways. He is utterly lost.

Those concerns are short-lived, mind again transfixed upon the stone and the voice that continues to linger in his head. It's clearer now than it was out in the courtyard, more at peace than when it was calling to him through unknown corridors. There is no fear to be felt now, no anxiety. Only a strange feeling of warmth and comfort.

As he approaches the Crystal, it begins to glow, a white-blue light stabbing into the backs of his eyes with an intensity he's not yet faced. A sound, like that of a steady hum, cuts through the air, and it is with a gasp that Noctis is blown back by an abrupt gust of wind, landing hard on his backside.

_"Fuck!"_

His whole body aches as if his very bones have been set alight beneath his skin. He cringes, face screwed up into a harsh scowl as he curls in on himself. The Starscourge _surges_ , pulsating through to the surface of his flesh, obsidian marks and flecks of starlight visible, and Noctis knows without even looking that the whites of his eyes have gone dark, traces of miasma spilling forth from his eyes like tears.

With his good hand, he swipes at his eyes, the inky blackness sticking to his dark sleeve with a strange luminescence. This has happened before _—_ once _—_ when he chose to abandon Lucis, remain in Niflheim with Ardyn, in the city that had seen him raised from boy to man. The chancellor had explained to him the Starscourge on that day, elaborated as to the abilities that came with it, as well as the costs. To give oneself over to the darkness, he said, would come with near limitless possibilities, the greatest of which to negate any physical damage done to one's body. The downside was, of course, an omnipresent buzzing in one's head, the many voices of those daemonified by the wielder of the darkness.

While Noctis has yet to change another person from mortal to daemon, and he has managed to avoid such a consequence. But it stands to reason that, with Ardyn at his back, that blissful peace of mind may not last too much longer. Not with the ferocity in the chancellor's desire for Noctis to perfect his hold upon the power.

He's on his feet once more, again approaching the Crystal, still swiping the darkness from his eyes as the stone glows brightly again. He stops cold and braces himself for yet another gust of wind, but it does not come. The light from the stone becomes brighter and brighter until he is forced to look away, startled only by the sensation of a cool hand grazing the side of his face.

_"Oh, Noctis. You've come to me."_

The woman who stands before him is nothing less than stunning. She is clad in black, dark hair swept over one shoulder in a neat braid, and her eyes... her eyes are the same shape as Noctis' own. There is a strange familiarity about her as she continues to stroke his cheek, black lines and streaks rolling down over her thumb and vanishing as if nothing had ever touched her skin.

"Who—?" he begins, a finger pressed suddenly to his lips.

Hers is a sweet smile, fond and warm, tears beginning to well up in her bright gaze as she speaks.

_"Noctis. My son. You've come home."_


	12. Hollow, Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever the manipulator, Ardyn twists the arm of the King Regis and divulges the intention of his visit. Noctis, in the meantime, finds himself drawn into the light of the Crystal alongside his spectral guide, and the true history of Lucis is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My triumphant return, in part, is here! Class is finished, my practical exams are finished, and I need only amuse myself and study for my written boards. I am, to say the least, very pleased to be here this evening.

_"Intriguing, is it not?"_

He likes that open venom in His Majesty's eyes very much. Perhaps too much, by the way he's smiling, seated upright in his chair to down the remainder of his glass. The taste is as it should be: that of yet another sweet victory over the eagle-eyed king. A shame, though, that dear Regis had not evaluated the Emperor's alleged offer with more caution. Ardyn would have preferred a bit more of a challenge upon entering Insomnia, but alas. One cannot always get what one wants. Sometimes, one gets what they need. Best, after all, not to look a gift chocobo in the mouth.

The device in his hand is rather small, no bigger than the brick of a mobile charger, translucent and flashing a dull red color with each consecutive pulse. It almost hums as its inner workings shift, the gentle vibrations lingering in the chancellor's grasp even as he places it again inside the pocket of his coat. The king appears perplexed for but a moment, and Ardyn sets the empty wine glass on the edge of the table as he stands, fingers dancing along the lip.

"It certainly doesn't look like much, and I myself find the name to be quite the mouthful," he flicks his eyes up to meet those of the king, "but the wallbreaker wave device certainly exceeds any and _all expectation."_

Verstael himself has spent years working on the project — upwards of thirty or so by the chancellor's count, for it was shortly following his first visit to Insomnia that the researcher had thrown his team headlong into researching the Crown City's wall, and a means by which to break through it. In the man's own words, the Insomnian defense forces would be as threatening as wet tissue paper once the device was completed. A nice little bonus, of course, being that it served to seal both the powers of the ring _and_ its wielding monarch.

Ardyn sighs thoughtfully, still tracing the lip of the glass, albeit with a fond smile.

"At the very least, I do owe you an apology, Majesty. _Truly_. For a great many things; the most pertinent of which, perhaps, being the... _abduction of your son."_ Regis' eyes narrow at that, and the gnarled fist at his side trembles with a righteous fury. Would that he could, the man would surely strike Ardyn down and revel in it. "He's such a good boy, you know. And, dare I say, he's done a _miraculous job_ of serving my needs within the Empire. _You_ _should be so proud._ "

The chancellor turns away, and gravity takes its chance to seize the glass, bringing it quickly to the floor where it shatters. The pieces skitter across the tiles, crunching into dust beneath the soles of his boots, Ardyn's pace slow and lazy as he circles the king with hungry eyes.

He can taste the blood in the water, even now.

It's almost too much, the overwhelming victory that he _again_ has chance to take pleasure in. The first had been quickly and easily tainted by the appearance of the Bladekeeper, and while he's not the least bit fond of the sword-slinging bastard, he's just a mite grateful that the Draconian had sought to stay his hand. In doing so, the gods have presented him with a series of outstanding opportunities, the greatest of which being the chance to steal away to Niflheim with the Crown Prince and mold him in the Accursed's own image. Perhaps, he thinks, _that_ will teach the would-be gods to trifle in the affairs of man.

A hand rests atop the pauldron of the king's shoulder, and the man visibly tenses. He knows better than to lash out the way he wants to, for his present subjects, be they loyal or not, are certain to pay the price. If nothing else, Regis is a kind man, careful and considerate in his rule of Lucis, and it is that which makes the chancellor's victory so much sweeter.

"You gave up the chase much too soon, Majesty," Ardyn purrs, and he can see the color of anger bloom across the face of the king's Shield in his peripheral. "Dear Noctis held fast to the hope that you might continue your search, but, alas, you let the poor boy down. He was utterly _devastated_ when news of his death reached Gralea. I can't tell you how many nights I sat awake drying his–"

_"Majesty!"_

It isn't pain that greets Ardyn when the king plows a fist – and that bearing the ring, no less – into his jaw. It is more a feeling of surprise, even as his skin flushes red and blood drips from a clean split in his lip. He rights himself, swiping at his mouth with but a finger, and Regis stands prepared to strike again if need be.

Whatever tension had lingered prior has only increased tenfold, the other occupants of the chamber breathing in silent, shallow gasps – assuming any of them are breathing at all. As if on cue, the doors part once more, a great man clad in fearsome magitek armor casting his shadow across the tile floor, blade held fast in hand.

"That was _hardly_ sporting, Your Majesty." Ardyn snorts, turning to regard the armored man. "Lovely of you to join us, General. And, now that our party is complete, _we can continue."_

* * *

The sound of receding steps are swallowed whole by the hum of Crystal, his heart hammering away against a ribcage still aching from tumbling down several flights of stairs. Everything in him – everything that he has learned from his life in Gralea – screams at him to move, place a thorough amount of distance between himself and the stone which seeks to blind him. But it is the sight of this woman, manifested from out of nowhere, who forces him to remain. She is but an arm's length away, and even with the steady throb of a broken wrist against his chest, Noctis finds himself longing to reach out to her.

With his good hand, he swipes haphazardly at his tainted eyes, ignoring the ink-like stains that drip down the lengths of his fingers. The woman smiles, slow and sad but _warm_ all the same, and it is with a trembling step forward that Noctis extends his arm. Her movements are slow, mirroring his own, and it is a spark of warmth that rushes up his arm and throughout the inside of Noctis' chest as their fingertips touch. In that moment, he finds himself a child again, barely high enough to see over the conference tables at Zegnautus, wishing very much to be wrapped in someone's arms.

"Who are you...?" The query is barely audible, hardly above a whisper, but she seems to hear him all the same. "I don't... understand. What is this place?"

As if in answer, she inclines her head to the Crystal suspended just over her shoulder, and Noctis feels another sharp sting as the light stabs again at the space behind his eyes.

_"Long ago, before the modern era came to light, there lived two brothers. It was only by the grace of the gods that their family line was blessed with the powers and strengths of magic that they might seek to benefit their people. One of the brothers, the elder, was revered throughout the land, beloved as a kind man and healer of maladies. The younger was a pragmatic, tempestuous man and a soldier, seeking to place righteous justice above all else. These men were the first of what would rise to become the Blood Royal of Lucis."_

Noctis furrows his brow. She's yet to answer his question, and he can only wonder why it is that this possible apparition, perhaps a spirit conjured by the Crystal, has sought to delve into the history of ancient Lucis. What he finds terribly off, however, is this the claim that there were _two men_ rather than the lone king around whom most Lucian lore is centered.

 _"Two,"_ he mimics, more in confusion than mockery of her words. "Are you... speaking of the Founder King? There weren't two; Somnus was the only heir."

As she regards him, a low shadow crosses her face, betraying in those vivid blue eyes a touch of mourning. _"He was not. There was another."_

The light again assails Noctis' senses, overtaking him with a ferocity that he fears may serve to rend him in two. On all sides, he finds himself aching, _burning,_ swallowed whole by a sensation of weightlessness and warmth the likes of which ought to be wholly impossible even with his powers. He finds himself falling, stuck in limbo, blinded to his surroundings by the white-hot intensity of what can only be the Crystal's strength. It is only when Noctis strikes solid ground and breathes in the familiar bite of rising dust that the world around him comes into focus, a city of another time laid out before his eyes.

Wrist still held to his chest, he pushes to his feet, clothing inundated with dirt, the woman of the Crystal standing beside him with her hands folded reverently in her lap.

 _"As the two flourished,"_ the sprawling city itself begins to shift, the span of years passing in a matter of mere seconds, _"their people safe and content, an illness spread throughout the world, terrorizing the citizenry, twisting men into monsters, and it was so that the brothers sought to repair the damage done."_

The night falls and throngs of people linger in the streets, several sinking to the ground to twist and writhe in agony, clothing rent into pieces as the shapes of daemons overtake their forms. Noctis shudders. He has seen daemons, hunted them, witnessed their raw power within the Empire's magitek infantry, but never has he been made to watch a human life be changed with such ferocious violence. Their faces contorted in screams, giving way to rows of jagged teeth, horns; limbs elongated and producing claws; the sickening pop and crack of bones that break and bend and bleed, redistributing into horridly unnatural skeletal structures...

He feels abruptly nauseous having watched the transformation, but it is a soothing hand atop Noctis' shoulder that ushers it all away.

 _"The gentle elder, believing mankind to be worth saving, elected to heal those afflicted with this scourge, drawing the darkness into his own body."_ Another pair of figures appear, two men — draped in white and black, respectively — though Noctis cannot catch glimpse of their faces as the sun rises to blind him, the daemons falling prey to the strength of its holy light. Only one of them bears a weapon. _"The younger brother, steadfast and noteworthy in his resolve, took a drastically different approach and sought to purge the sickness from the land with fire and blade in hand."_

The words are but a whisper on the wind, an afterthought amidst a roar of fire that engulfs the city, swallowing men and daemons whole with a fury that does not discriminate.

 _"The gods, having long since deemed the brothers' bloodline worthy of their grace, made a choice to bestow upon but one of them the rights to a sacred ring and keys to Eos: the Crystal, spirit of the Star itself."_ As if the unseen puppet master behind this whole charade, the Crystal shows itself then, burning too an image of an ornate ring into the inside of Noctis' skull. He ventures a step forward to touch the stone, breath caught hard in his throat as the landscape changes to that of Tenebrae, the sylleblossom fields in full bloom as a young woman in white robes ventures past him.

"Is that..."

_The Lady Lunafreya?_

_"By way of the Oracle of Tenebrae, emissary of the divine and betrothed to the healer, the gods made known their decision, electing the elder brother to serve them as the first King of Lucis."_

Elder brother. _Chosen_ , she says, and Noctis grits his teeth. While Lucian by birth, his loyalties lie wholly with Niflheim — _with Ardyn_ — and he turns to the figure of this woman with a sneer mimicking that of the chancellor, fist trembling as she regards him with a placid expression.

"I _know_ their history!" he snaps, waving his hand as if to dismiss the whole of what he's seen. "As I've told you, there was no other heir to choose from! The Founder King of Lucis—"

The woman, whose name Noctis still has not yet determined, lifts a finger to point over his shoulder, that same look of melancholy overtaking her once more.

 _"No,"_ she says simply, and it is with wide amber eyes that the once-prince follows the trajectory of her finger, startled to see the woman in white join hands with a man Noctis has seen every day for years.

_Ardyn._

Be this a vision of truth or but a trick of the Crystal's light, Noctis does not know. But it is in that moment that his resolve is shaken to gravel, gaze cemented upon a face that appears as but a caricature of the man who raised him. The angles of his face are gentler, eyes a radiant blue, the smile he bears that of genuine warmth and affection as opposed to the mocking grin of the chancellor. This man is both Ardyn and not all at once, but it is the familiarity unfolding in Noctis' chest — the memory of comfort and safety, his small and weakened body held firm in his uncle's arms — that drives the nail home.

Noctis' good hand rises to tangle in the mess of his dark hair, palm obscuring one eye as the blackness fades away, leaving only stark golden shock behind.

"What are you saying? A-Are you telling me, that—"

 _"Ardyn Lucis Caelum,"_ she says, and the echo twists his stomach into knots innumerable. _"He alone was chosen by the gods to be the Founder King of Lucis."_


	13. The Light, The Truth, The Way Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enriched and terrified by the things shown to him by the Crystal, Noctis seeks to put a stop to the chancellor's game before it can draw to a close. In Tenebrae, Lady Lunafreya finds herself privy to the goings-on in the Citadel by way of the gods' eyes.

There is nothing the least bit believable about what it is he has seen. All the same, Noctis finds himself once more in the chamber of the Crystal, sinking to his knees, broken wrist falling limply at his side. He feels empty, _hollow_ , perhaps even betrayed by the revelation — if one can go so far as to call it such. The woman in black remains, still poised between Noctis and the humming mass of the stone. His eyes flick to her face, jaw slack, breaths staggered as though he has to remind himself to inhale. Dark hair hangs across his sweat slicked brow, shifting forward and back as he shakes his head.

"Tell me... tell me it isn't true... _please._ "

It is on the marble floor that this messenger now joins him, both his hands clasped between her own, blue eyes brimming with regret. She need not say a word for Noctis to know that he has witnessed the truth. He feels faint a moment, warm fingers catching the underside of his chin.

_"You, Noctis, are the future of this star, just as Ardyn is its past."_

But a moment is spent on reflection, cuts of time spinning through his mind with the intensity of a hurricane. His jaw sets to keep from trembling, and the stark contrast between the man he's seen and the one he knows is akin to the twisting of a knife in his gut. The chamber itself seems to decrease in temperature, hands tingling from a lack of warmth, stuttering breaths emerging in hot puffs of smoke. He wants to turn away from the spirit, to run, throw himself against Ardyn as he had when he was a boy, fearful of nightmares conjured by his own traitorous mind. But it is somewhere deep within that Noctis knows that the _man he wants to usher this all away may very well have never existed_ _._

He directs his gaze to that of the woman in black, good hand rising to graze her cheek with frigid fingertips, shaking all the while. There is comfort to be found here with her, even in this unnatural chill, in his crippling unease. Tracing the outline of her face, her features, builds in him a strange sense of safety, and Noctis longs to understand why.

"Who _are_ you?" he says, tone heavy with fatigue and a reverence that is so unbefitting of an assassin sworn to Niflheim.

Yes, he has sought to ask her once already, but the importance of the revelation bestowed upon him had clearly taken precedence, perhaps at the Crystal's behest. Warmth floods through Noctis' bones as the soft palms of both her hands frame his face. She leans in close, a kiss pressed to his cheek before she lays her forehead against his, staring into his eyes with those which he finds utterly captivating.

_"Noctis. My prince. My son."_

Electricity shakes him then, his body a lightning rod for what feels like an obscene amount of force. Even having never met her, he should have known by way of the peace her voice imparted upon him, her gentle touch, her eyes and face and smile. This woman who kneels before him – be she real or but a conjuration by the Crystal itself – _is his mother._

He accepts this fact with little resistance — for what good has so futile a thing ever done to serve him these many long years? — somehow content that, if fate had seen fit to tear him from his father's arms in Tenebrae, present him with the true nature of his raiser, why could this not be truth as well?

Breath stops cold in Noctis' throat, jaw clenched in a fierce grimace as another image appears before his eyes: the Lucian council chambers, now plagued by throngs of Imperial soldiers, the chancellor circling the king with a look that could kill in and of itself. As the vision again gives way to the chamber of the Crystal, Noctis finds nails biting into the calloused flesh of his palms, the damage done to his wrist but a dull ache pushed to the back of his mind.

"Ardyn is..." The man's name suddenly tastes perverse in his mouth, and he sets his lips in a firm line as he swallows. "He's going to kill the king, isn't he?"

The woman of the Crystal — no, _his mother_ — gives him nothing in reply, but it is a knowing flicker in her kind blue eyes that sets him to rights, the distance between them growing greater with each hurried step he takes towards the stairs.

Noctis does not hesitate, taking the steps two or three at a time, chest heaving as he forces himself to move. The soles of his boots touch down upon the checkered tile of the too-familiar Citadel hallways, and it is then that he realizes he'd not seen fit to ask for her name. But he has no time to turn back, hurried gait breaking out into a full-on sprint, his heavy steps and haggard breathing echoing through the empty corridor as though he charges through the den of a daemon. In a sense, the parallel is frighteningly accurate.

He cannot seem to shake the visions of the Crystal: Ardyn, confronted by the faceless man in black, bowed hopelessly over the lifeless remains of the Oracle, the point of a blade pressed to the hollow of his throat. There had been defiance in his eyes as the other man, _his own brother_ , had placed all of his weight against the hilt in an attempt to kill him. It was all terribly unsettling, but the worst of it all had been the true nature of the Starscourge, the very power pulsing in Noctis' own veins. He's seen it but a time or two, darkening the chancellor's eyes and changing him to appear as something utterly inhuman. It has only ever manifested in moments of overwhelming strain, and he has always been startled by the sheer effort it had taken Ardyn to force it back beneath the surface.

A part of him hopes that none of it is true, though it is a pinprick of light deep within Noctis' heart that insists otherwise.

_For the future of this Star,_ _walk tall, my son._

* * *

"I'll not let you take my son again."

Why is it that, when faced with the inevitable, those so terribly disadvantaged seek to state the impossible? Ardyn finds it aggravating, rubbing unceremoniously at his eyes with a hand. From behind, the general's heavy footfalls echo with each advance until, at last, the imposing beast of a man stands at the chancellor's side, eyeing the king through the glassy slits of his helm. Not a word is exchanged between the two, the general's blade rising to rest at the tip of Regis' sternum.

It is brief, but Ardyn appears rather bored in that moment, drawing the monarch's staunch disapproval. The Accursed merely sighs.

"I would _so_ hate to kill you, Majesty," he says, gaze turned to Glauca, nose wrinkling at the man's abysmal choice in attire. "Your death would, at the very least, throw a wrench in the plans I have for both your son and kingdom. Would you be so cruel as to force a man to rethink the entirety of this match?"

The king's eyes narrow in response, and while Ardyn had not truly expected His Majesty to sympathize with the plight, he had anticipated at least some manner of biting retort, if not an attempt at negotiation from the venerable ruler. Even faced with certain death, Regis is nothing if not reasonable. His first venture into the Crown City had taught him at least that much.

He takes several steps back, attention shifting to the council members now peppering the circumference of the room. Each of them is flanked by armed soldiers, and the gravity of the situation has staked its claim within each of them, though some still radiate hatred.

Ardyn scoffs, nods to the door, and it is wordlessly that the soldiers march the entirety of the council across the chambers' threshold and out into the hall. He has left their fates to the discretion of a capable captain, and turns once more to regard general and king with a satisfied smile that is all too eager. Adagium draws close to Regis, this time taking hold of the man's hand – the one bearing the ring. Eyes narrow incrementally at the fixture adorning the king's finger. With power sealed, his precious guard and council dismissed, His Majesty has little recourse left but to comply with any and all demands.

"You know I'll not _ask_ for the ring, Majesty," he says, and a low sound emerges from beneath the general's helm, too easily betraying his impatience with the chancellor's game.

The king jerks from out of Ardyn's grasp, looking as though he's just tasted something sour, but it is of no use. Even with a brave face, this man knows he has reached the end of his time upon the Star. How fitting that he's been granted chance to see the son he failed — if only as a tool in service to he who would burn Lucis to the ground.

As Adagium steps readily away, Glauca pushes forward, the point of his blade dropping to pierce the king's chest with a vulgar sound. It is one that, as men of war, all are terribly familiar with — the merciless rending of soft, mortal flesh, breaking bones, and the inevitable gasp of impending death that quickly follows. Rather in vain does Regis take hold of the general's arm, piercing blue eyes staring into the slits of the man's helm, recognition dawning upon the king as his knees begin to buckle. Whether or not the truth of Glauca's identity has been determined is of little importance to the chancellor. He sighs, having grown rather tired of his own game, moving only to push the bloodied body of the king to the floor with the heel of a boot.

"In these your last moments, pray grant this old heretic the honor of _a small favor_ , Majesty." As Regis lies trembling on the floor, there is loathing and regret in those eyes as Adagium speaks, only ever clouded in regards to his only beloved son. The ring is plucked from a bloodied hand, tucked away within the chancellor's coat. ❝Do let my dear brother know _I have not yet forgotten him._ ❞

* * *

It means little to her, the china which strikes the floor, spilling its hot contents across both tile and the front of her dress. A pair of strong hands come to rest upon her trembling shoulders, the lady's own fingers rising to clutch the breast of her gown. Something deep within her burns like fire, the striking ache of loss that she has felt time and time again. The first time had been the loss of her father when she was very young. The second, that of her mother and her kingdom stolen by the Empire, and the supposed death of the young prince some few months later. Each time following had been that of her own helplessness amidst this war, in the face of the scourge, towns and villages wiped clean off the face of the Star for the fact that the Oracle had not been swift enough to arrive.

But this twinge within her chest, this twist of the proverbial knife, wraps all of those dreaded instances into one, and Lunafreya is numb to what goes on around her even as Ravus plucks her from the floor to cradle her in his arms. She is there and not, aware more of what goes on a world away than the words her brother whispers in her ear.

For years, she has been privy to visions, and they have since become a part of her. She bears witness now to the sight of warm blood dripping down a set of stairs, the edges of the room in which she stands hazy and dark. A light hangs high above her head from the windows, but it seems as nothing when compared to the air of darkness that has fallen across the chamber.

She spots him then, the chancellor, and the too familiar shape of the man in fearsome armor, his blade again dripping red with the life of the victim he has chosen. Between them, she knows, lies the one who fell by the general's blade A table stands in her way, obscuring the Oracle's sight of the dead. It is hesitantly that she moves to one side, circling around behind high-backed chairs, almost fearful of drawing too close. The armored man turns, the glassy slits of his helm directed at her, though she knows that he looks straight through. Lunafreya does not yet have chance to take in the identity of the deceased when a cry reaches her ears, her attention turned towards the chamber doors.

Noctis pushes his way forward, looking gaunt and terrified, a strange blackness having swallowed up his eyes. A knife appears in his hand and he throws it, lurching forward across the length of the room to fall at the armored general's feet. The weapon goes skittering across tile as the prince's hands graze pools of red, the chancellor looking nothing short of livid, though he remains stone still. Noctis looks to him, then to the general, a bloodied palm pressed fast against his mouth to still the trembling of his voice.

Lunafreya ventures forward once again, shaking as she spots the Empire's victim, clad in black with red staining his silvery hair.

King Regis, she finds, has been slain.

She startles as he moves, almost a hurricane, the chancellor's hand taking hold of Noctis' arm with a ferocity she's not seen from the man. He is certainly not her friend, being employed by the Empire as he is, but this strange patchwork of a man has shown her much kindness in the wake of her mother's death, and so it serves to frighten Lunafreya to find that he does, indeed, house a temper behind that smile.

Noctis jerks away from him, bloodied hands falling against the man's chest, leaving dark and vulgar stains. He throws himself at the side of the king again, cradling that lifeless body in his arms as he rocks himself forward and back.

The blackness in the prince's eyes gives way to tears then, dark and muddied, and — as she seeks to reach for him, offer comfort — Lunafreya finds herself being pulled away, the room spinning her right back to Tenebrae where she had begun.

_"Lunafreya!"_

It is Ravus that calls her, fear carved into his face so often made to look like stone, and a finger grazes her cheek, sweeping away a tear. Her chest aches, limbs tingling as feeling returns, and her cheeks grow flush as hot, fresh tears trickle down the planes of her gentle face. She sniffs, blinks away those tears that have yet to fall, and stares up into the mismatched eyes of her beloved brother as he takes her hand.

He swallows audibly, a wash of relief coming over him as she moves to entwine their fingers.

"Are you—?"

 _"Ravus,"_ she says, and her voice is hoarse, throat stinging as though it had been she who had screamed herself raw. The stain upon her dress remains, a disorganized mark painted across her belly, reminiscent of blood. "Brother, I fear... something _terrible_ has happened."


	14. Instigator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis awakens some days after the death of the king to a surprising bit of news.
> 
> In the Crown City, Ignis and Gladio are presented with a task of great importance by the surviving members of the Imperial onslaught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been very disorganized lately. My board exams, of course, which I will have to retake, and then a surprise death in the family that I was utterly blindsided by. Needless to say, I haven't had the mindset with which to work on this for several days. I'm hoping that will change with the holidays now upon us. 
> 
> I do hope the rest of you are faring better, and I appreciate your patience, particularly if you have been following this story. Do let me know how it's turning out, if you have a moment.

It is strain which serves to plague him, a deep-seated ache beginning in bones and rising through him like heat. The intensity is like that of the damned morning sun, and it creates in him a steady throbbing, timed too well with the synchronized beating of his heart.

Uncommon and uncomfortable are perhaps the best descriptors, though both are sorely lacking, and it is something he can feel right down into the roots of his teeth. It is a common enough ache that, on most days, Ardyn can push it all to the back of his mind, drown it out in memories – those both his own and not – or recitations of Imperial nonsense for a bit of temporary relief.

This is not one of those times. This time, _it burns._

Independent of his will, the chancellor's hands clench, a small and heavy stretch of blackened tungsten held tightly in one fist. It's the weight of the thing that grants his mind any sense of ease, for it has been years since they have felt too much more than pressure and temperature. Even half drowned in incomplete and restless slumber, the thought of these wounds only angers him, draws to the surface far more than he would care to remember.

Endless nights bearing the bite and chill of chains imbued with divine strength, keeping him immobile and touched only by the dark. The almost impossible fragility of mind and body left devoid of outside contact for days and nights innumerable. Even now in the distant aftermath, he's only ever broached the subject to draw fury from it, never once ascertaining precisely how many times the sun had elected to rise and fall without him. The numbers are, after all, immaterial to his desired resolution, and only serve to shake him.

It us the uneasy creaking of a door that snags his attention, one eye cracked open to glance at the armored figure looming in the doorway, hesitant and even fearful of his reaction. While haphazard appearances strongly suggest otherwise, Ardyn is not a man renowned for his tolerance of insubordination or failure, and it shows with the manner in which each new batch of recruits watch him as they come marching through Zegnautus. He's made a name for himself, and with little effort, and that the soldier come to fetch him bears very much the same look of apprehension as the others pleases the chancellor immensely.

The man has followed his instructions to the letter, relaying in a hushed tone the state of the prince, still laid up in the infirmary with a nasty laceration to his head. Evidently, the boy has awakened a time or two, posed query as to Ardyn's whereabouts, and thus one of those set to watch him has come to inform. The chancellor's sigh is that of an endless fatigue — dealing with the damned Lucians for any stretch of time seems to exacerbate the effect on him — as he follows the ever-reticent soldier down a series of short, dark hallways within the ship to where dear Noctis awaits.

"It would seem you had quite the adventure in the Crown City." His tone is laced with amusement, but the boy fails to react appropriately. He bears but a placid expression, eyes downcast to the floor even as a hand works its way through a mess of black to finger the fine stitching in his scalp. Ardyn huffs. "You have questions."

"I saw..." Noctis' brow furrows then, jaw clenched. "I don't know _what_ I saw."

That certainly makes this easier, though Ardyn has come prepared to deal with anything the boy might seek to throw at him. At the very least, he'd anticipated that same roiling fury displayed within the council chambers, Regis' lifeless body held fast to his son's chest as the boy screamed. Glauca had possessed little patience for such a display, far less than the chancellor's own, and had been swift in silencing the prince with a blow to the side of the head that had, of course, led to a concussion and the need for a medic. Tedious, certainly, but far less so than Noctis recalling the whole ordeal with startling clarity.

With the door now shut to leave the pair of them alone, Ardyn produces another exasperated sound as he sits beside his ward, a hand lazily coming to rest atop Noctis' head, pulling the boy to his shoulder. Well prepared or not for any eventuality, this is all rather tiresome. Would that he could simply wish it all away.

"The drudgery of politics," the chancellor assures him, almost soothing in his delivery. It would not do to permit Noctis even a shred of doubt in him, even if he is terribly confident in his ability to provide remedy. "A lot of back and forth, the sort – as I recall – you have always grown rather bored with."

Yes, there had been myriad meetings within Zegnautus, the nature of which had all but bored Ardyn into a stupor. Meetings in which he had participated for no more than the sake of his grand design. From the beginning of their time together, Noctis had never possessed much patience for such talks, preferring instead to busy himself with made up games in the chancellor's office or sneaking a bit of coin from his pocket.

Noctis' expression bears little change, but a blink of remembrance brimming behind golden eyes. It vanishes like a spark, the dour mood settling again upon the boy's shoulders.

"The Crystal." His tone is almost that of reverence, and Ardyn comes dangerously close to grinding his teeth in irritation. "It was in the Citadel, somewhere. I found it."

There is no safer place in Lucis for the Soul of Eos than the Citadel of Kings. And none more obvious, for that matter. The Empire has sought for some hundred years to claim the holy stone as their own, to bring prosperity and the return of greatness upon her lands. If false legends are to be believed, that is. And with Iedolas ever blinded by desperation, by his utter fear of death, it stands to reason that the citizens of Niflheim too have come to place their faith in such fallacies.

The man will be inundated with fury upon learning that the Crystal itself remains in Lucian custody, but that is yet another eventuality for which Ardyn is thoroughly prepared. He did not, after all, venture to Insomnia for the sake of a blasted piece of rubble.

"Intriguing," he says, watching Noctis draw nonsensical patters upon the fabric of his trousers. "How ever did you manage to get so lucky?"

"Dunno."

Ardyn doesn't buy that for a minute, the tension in the prince's form an abrupt betrayal of the lie. While he may well have simply stumbled upon the Crystal within the Citadel's maze, there is something about the event that Noctis is keeping from him. He doesn't like that, and will not tolerate it for long.

But, with the boy's trembling, his obvious state of shock and turmoil, calls for a far more gentle touch than perhaps either of them are used to.

"You've not been sleeping well." The startled shift in Noctis' attention is all the answer he needs. Ardyn smiles faintly, pressing the crown of the boy's head beneath his chin. Even being cleansed of the king's blood, he can still smell it. _Raw power._ "You had such awful nightmares as a boy, you know. Often enough that it took years to break you of those bad habits."

Reflection blooms in Noctis' eyes, the tension in his frame slowly uncoiling until he at last rests against Ardyn's shoulder of his own will. Surprisingly, a hand rises to curl in the material of the chancellor's shirt, and the boy sighs.

There had been a time where the prince had been as his shadow, perched on his heels and prepared to take flight at the drop of a hat. He had been eager, albeit frightened, come to the conclusion within a few short years that he was all but untouchable within the Empire so long as Ardyn was there to tend to him. But it had taken _time_.

At the onset of their meeting, when the wounded fledgling had come to, he had been rigid with fear, stiff and skeptical even as his little body had been held in Ardyn's arms. As the days passed and the situation dawned upon him – with a bit of help, naturally – young Noctis was loathe to let the man out of his sight, perhaps for fear of being left behind once more. It had been then, some months later, that the child had taken to sneaking through the halls and into Ardyn's own bed, and always on the nights where the Accursed had anticipated getting a bit of sleep.

But being an immortal insomniac doesn't quite work that way.

"Bad habits? That doesn't sound like me," Noctis murmurs, but the trace of a smile can be felt. "Don't know what you're talking about."

There's been enough time wasted here with the mundane, enough spent dawdling, weaseling his way back into the prince's affections as a safeguard. Were it not so, Noctis would not tolerate him being this close, fingers carding through tufts of too-long black hair, idly daydreaming of the unholy terror he intends to rain down upon this Star. How fortunate that, perceptive as the boy is, he's never been terribly capable of discerning his handler's true intentions. That may well change one day.

"What do you remember?"

Thick tension hangs between them, space granted the younger as he pulls away, bows over his knees with fingers laced. While his breathing remains steady, it is the rising of the hair at his nape, the gentle trembling of his shoulders, that betrays his unease. Ardyn doesn't push him, patient and silent as the prince hesitantly toes the edge of explanation, finally making the plunge after several long minutes.

While the tale is but a jumbled mess of ramblings and uncertainty, Adagium hangs on every word, fitting the disjointed fragments together into a whole that paints a picture clearer than that which Noctis could conjure. As if through his own eyes, the Citadel halls rush past amidst waves of nausea and confusion, the world a blur until the crisp, clean shape of the damned stone comes into view. Ardyn ignores any mention of the woman — a vision dismissed as but an appearance of one pretended Messenger, beholden to the Oracle and her holy mission — returns to the bloodied council chambers as Noctis trails off, indicating not only the end of his venture through the Citadel, but his reluctance to say anything more.

The chancellor regards him with a wry smile, much as he used to when Noctis would arrive home expecting to keep every stray he stumbled upon.

"How disappointing that I must, again, be the bearer of bad news."

The prince's pale face is screwed up into a questioning scowl. "What... What does _that_ mean?"

Mock surprise overtakes Ardyn, fingers gripping the boy's chin with a tenderness that he finds difficult to maintain. Wide golden eyes search through his own, and he finds some pleasure in the apprehension that swallows the prince.

_"Oh, Noctis, I am afraid... His Majesty fell by your hand."_

* * *

"You're joking."

It is a demand rather than a question, the taller man staring him down with wide brown eyes. The dark scars that line his cheek and brow seem to vanish a moment, giving way to the face of the stocky youth with whom Ignis had grown up. Much as he wishes it otherwise, the facts remain the same, and it is with a heavy heart and a stern shake of his head that the young advisor to the late king is made to be the bearer of bad news.

There is an audible gasp as his companion seats himself, palms laid flat against his knees as if to brace himself. Truly, nothing could have prepared them for this, be they citizens of Insomnia, of Lucis, or those sworn to protect and uphold the crown. That day, and each one following, had felt very much surreal, as though the floor itself had dropped out from beneath the lot of them and insisted that they continue walking. The weight of failure sits heavy in Ignis' stomach, and it is with the clearing of his throat that he does seek to usher away the bitterness befouling his tongue.

If there is anything good to be found in the wake of Regis' untimely death, it is that the prince himself still lives. While beholden to the Empire and a man whose motives remain ever shrouded, Noctis himself is alive and whole, and perhaps the gods themselves have not sought to intervene for the sake of his return.

While but a handful of those loyal to the crown are very much aware of the prince's status as a hand of the Empire, to the common onlooker, it appears as though the Line of Lucis has come to an abrupt end with the slaying of His Majesty. They would be foolish to anticipate peace in the wake of such news, what with every headline in the kingdom spearheading the effort to inform the public of these unfortunate events: King Regis, slain. The Crystal, dormant. The Wall, obsolete.

"What happens now?" Those eyes fixate upon Ignis once again, stark shock replaced with a righteous indignation as the man stands. "This would be a big enough mess _without_ the appearance of the Imperials, but having them involved complicates things."

The advisor nods, glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose in a thoughtful — albeit absent-minded — gesture. Gladiolus is right on both accounts. In the years following the fall of Tenebrae and the believed death of the prince, many throughout Lucis had been swift to voice their disapproval of the fact that His Majesty had not sought to marry again and produce an heir. Others had speculated that the king had remained unperturbed following his son's alleged passing, insinuating rather loudly that there existed within the Citadel a bastard child — or several, for that matter — belonging to myriad women yet unnamed. The allegations were false, of course, but saying as much and denying rumor had done precious little to quell the spread of gossip. Even now, there live those within Lucis who still adhere to such misguided beliefs as to the late king.

Ignis' brow furrows in deep thought, arms set squarely across his chest. All in all, it is up to the Lucian Royal Council to decide what is to be done with the monarchy, and with the prince himself certain to be viewed as but an enemy to the kingdom, the odds are great that they may elect to choose a new ruler or be done with the system altogether and begin anew. A democracy, perhaps, though the thought of enacting such a sudden change after two thousand years is far easier said than done.

"The best case scenario would be to have His Highness return to the Crown City to succeed the throne. But, of course, the Empire's involvement in all of this serves only to complicate matters, as you've said."

Perhaps, had he kept a more watchful eye on Noctis, managed to keep up with him as he disappeared through the Citadel halls, the bulk of this crisis could have been averted. Though... that may be giving himself far too much credit. All the same, the king may well have been laid to waste by the chancellor and his surprise entourage, but had they been able to maintain hold of the prince, steadily reacclimate him to his homeland and the importance of his role as successor to the throne, the people may well have been inclined to trust him in time. But that option, it seems, is little more now than wishful thinking.

The raucous sound of shouting echoes down the hall just outside the door, and it is with a startled shout that it opens to reveal a young man with a head of blond hair, clutching an expensive-looking camera between his hands. Even with the strap slung around his neck, he cradles the device as though it is made of glass, tumbling to the floor with several members of the Crownsguard and Glaives following swiftly at his heels. The eyes of both the advisor and his companion go wide with shock, the lithe young man staggering quickly to his feet to dart around behind Gladiolus.

The Marshal wears a more perturbed look than normal as he enters, one hand resting steadily on his hip as the others file in behind him. Most noticeable, perhaps, is the stern face of the late king's Shield, Gladiolus' father, Clarus, for the man looks perhaps far too eager to surge forward and seize the perceived photographer by the throat.

"It's not spying," the blond quips, head poking out from behind Gladiolus' broad shoulder, " _it's journalism._ "

Ah. Ignis nods, observant gaze taking in the scene before him, the pieces all clicking quickly into place. This young man — Prompto, was it? — has made quite the name for himself these last few years as a nuisance, finding clever ways with which to sneak into and around the Citadel to procure photographs of various events and meetings not made privy to the public. He is, for lack of better phrasing, viewed as public enemy number one in the eyes of royal security, if only for his prowess in snapping pristine pictures and reporting to _Insomnia Today_ some terribly inaccurate information. And, by the look of things, the poor kid's likely been snatched up by the Glaives and Crownsguard for seeking yet another scoop.

A beleaguered sigh draws the young advisor from reverie just in time to see Prompto shoved forward by the Shield's son, the Marshal approaching to catch the blond by the shoulder.

"Calm down. You're not in trouble," he says flatly, and the look upon the photographer's face is very much the same as that which Ignis himself bears. "We have a request, actually." Cor fixes Gladiolus and Ignis with his stoic gaze next. "All of you."

It's blindsiding to be certain, and Ignis finds himself blinking several times as if doing so will somehow help him to decipher what it is he's hearing. In the wake of the king's murder, the surviving council members – those who had not seen fit to fight back – the Crownsguard, and the Glaives had convened, determining the safety of the Crown City and her citizens to be of the highest priority. It had this been decided that, in order to best ascertain said safety and the future of the kingdom, Prince Noctis would need to be returned to Lucis to succeed his father.

"You are saying...?" All eyes rest upon the young advisor, and it is in that moment that Ignis feels his nerve beginning to waver. "We are to bring His Highness home?"

The Marshal nods wordlessly, that stern expression cemented still upon his face. Clarus huffs through his nose, carrying on where the other man will not.

"The pair of you," he regards Ignis and Gladiolus, "have history with the prince, however brief." Piercing eyes settle upon the photographer, still lingering behind the Shield's son. "And _you..._ I believe you are precisely what Prince Noctis needs." Clarus' gaze softens, bearing a strange touch of sorrow. _"A friend."_


	15. In Your Best Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the behest of the Crownsguard, Prompto sets forth on a journey with Ignis and Gladio at his side. Their mission: To find Prince Noctis and bring him safely home. In Tenebrae, Lady Lunafreya prays for the wellbeing of the prince who, in Gralea, still struggles to come to terms with the events faced within Insomnia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a little longer than I wanted, and it's a bit shorter and less exciting than intended. Alas, all stories must have a break at some point, yes? Consider this the chapter where everyone (well, most everyone) gets a break. And expect more Chocobros as well.

This whole thing — traversing the world in search of a lost prince — sounds very much like something out of a video game, if he's being honest, though there is little reason for him to voice such a thought. The likelihood that it will be appreciated is next to none.

He is familiar enough with his companions, if only having met them in passing, but still Prompto finds himself hesitant to engage either of them in conversation. The buttons and dials on his powered-off camera click and twist beneath his fingers, the fidgeting a habit that manifests when he finds himself trapped and nervous. At this very moment, strapped into the front seat of a luxury car with two of the men in service to the late king, the blond feels very much out of place and alone.

They are friendly enough, he supposes, Ignis having taken a moment prior to departure to ask about his meal preferences and any potential allergies. It had seemed strange at the onset, but the importance of such a query had dawned upon him when the bespectacled man had taken to jotting down notes in a pocket-sized notebook, the other pages appearing to be filled with various recipes too numerous to count. The son of the Shield, Gladiolus, had come marching down the stairs of the Citadel with an assortment of camping equipment, slapping Prompto heartily on the back with a grin.

It was at that moment that Prompto had excused himself to run home and pack a duffel bag as well as additional camera equipment.

The Shield and the Marshal had said very little when pressed for a full disclosure, likely regarding the cameraman as more of a hindrance than an aid in this particular venture. But, when Cor himself had pulled the boy to one side, all of his uncertainty had vanished.

"You can do this," he'd said, and it was not a question. "You're a smart young man. Talented. Capable. Do yourself a favor, and don't sell yourself short. The three of you boys are a team, understand? You cannot function without one another."

He smiles then, clutching the camera to his chest, fingers still. It had been some years ago that the Marshal had taken an interest in him, a shy and seemingly hopeless kid from the residential district, insisted on teaching him the ways of the Crownsguard — provided he keep up with his studies in school. Prompto had always been in awe of the man, grown up hearing stories of the Immortal, and came to idolize him. Meeting the man himself, and being made his student in the art of combat, had been more than a freckled volunteer at the local animal shelter could have hoped for.

Blue eyes skirt down to the side pocket in the door, the polished handle of his preferred handgun protruding over the lip. The Marshal had given it to him not long ago, a couple years, perhaps, when his training had been deemed complete. A graduation present, his mentor had said.

"The Marshal trained you himself, did he not? If I may, what stopped you from joining the Crownsguard sooner, Prompto?"

The voice startles him from reverie, as if the man in the driver's seat beside him had managed to read his thoughts. A gloved hand lifts to scratch at the side of his face, wind cool against his skin. Biting into his bottom lip, the photographer casts the other man an uneasy glance, a gentle flush coming to rest upon freckled cheeks. The flush of embarrassment.

"I didn't..."

_Think I was good enough._

The words catch on the end of his tongue, ready to betray his unease. He is here now, isn't he?

"Well, whatever the reason, you needn't worry," Ignis says with a smile, and the car begins to slow, pulling in beneath a great metal awning in the shape of a shark. The ignition dies and he slings one arm over the wheel, turning to face the photographer fully. "You are among friends."

* * *

Pale fingers ghost over the letters upon the page, messy but so fully of promise. It is elation that fills the Oracle as she traces each shape, reads through the many lines of dark, slanted ink and weaves them into pictures of the other's travels. Even from here, at table in her bedchamber in a far-off nation, she can see the rolling hills and yellow grasses marking out the deserts of Leide. The spectrum of wildlife is vast and plentiful, and the roads long, dark black stretches upon uneven ground. While she has seen pictures and documentaries a thousand times over, Lunafreya knows that cameras do precious little to capture the true beauty of such places. One day, perhaps soon, she would very much care to venture away from her home and to the east, visit the lands of Lucis rather than simply imagine them.

Umbra had returned as but a faint shadow at one corner of the wide room, appearing much like a phantom to deliver the leather-bound book into her hands. While a Messenger of the gods, the dog has served as a beloved companion these many years, acting on her behalf as a means of connecting with the world beyond Tenebrae's borders. The same cannot be said for much longer, should Niflheim too take the Lucian continent under her wing.

She had elected to be rather vague when the prince and chancellor had departed — for she has no love lost on the latter — instructing Noctis to but voice his wish to commune with her when he sought to return the notebook. The prince had fixed her with a befuddled expression, but as he had slipped away from her grasp, fingertips grazing the Oracle's palm, she had just smiled.

_"Trust me."_

It would seem that he had done just that.

Pen in hand, Lunafreya turns to a blank page, hesitates as stills of the dreaded vision flicker by. It would be best, she thinks, to avoid mention of the king, for while the omens bode ill for the kingdom of Lucis, she cannot yet be certain of His Grace's passing until such a time as the Citadel makes a formal announcement. As of yet, it seems wise to err on the side of caution.

And so, as she writes, the Lady Oracle keeps the face of the young prince in mind, and prays to the gods that he be preserved and spared any unnecessary suffering.

* * *

Needless to say, Noctis does not understand.

The world outside his bedroom window is a sea of white as snow falls upon the city, relentless. While the sight appears peaceful, there is apprehension in the presence of white flakes, the threat of ice upon paved streets and stray snowballs flying amok from the hands of unruly children. It feels very much like a mirror, reflecting upon the world his own dreaded uncertainty.

He had been swift to depart the airship upon arrival, coat fastened tightly and hood pulled over his head as snow engulfed him up to the ankle. While the bite of wind had come more quickly than expected, and when Ardyn had seen fit to take hold of him for yet another discussion, the man had become caught up in fielding questions from one of the Emperor's couriers: A serious young man insisting that the chancellor accompany him to Zegnautus. It had been then that Noctis had made his escape, traversed the maze of a city until such a time as he began to recognize various landmarks in the neighborhood.

It has been some days now since he's bothered speaking with his uncle, for news of the Crystal's sudden dormancy had served to throw the Emperor into a fit of hysterics and false threats. Thus had it fallen to Ardyn to again take the reigns, which has done well to blessedly keep the man out of the house and away from his charge. Noctis is quietly grateful for such a turn of events, for he has had time to think, and has rather graciously been spared an audience with Iedolas to receive commendation for his alleged actions within the Crown City. It is here that the root of his unease begins.

Try as he might, Noctis has been utterly unable to piece together the full events of that day within the Citadel. The extent of his memory is of the Crystal, the woman in black – _his mother_ – and little else. How strange, he thinks, fairly certain that he would recall at least _some_ small part of the king's death at his hand. But perhaps the shock of the whole situation, between the questionable visions and the murder itself, has served to blind him.

Hands rest squarely upon his knees, palms rubbing into the black material of his sweatpants. With his bottom lip caught between teeth, he sighs as the sound of the front door echoes up the stairs and down the hall, followed by the unmistakable snarl of Ardyn's temper. Clearly, he thinks smugly, the day's visit with His Radiance has not gone well. It is with that in mind that Noctis crosses the darkened room to flip the lock on his door, though he finds it unlikely that he is the only one with a desire to be left alone.

With the covers of his bedding pulled down, he climbs in and presses his back to the wall, a pillow clutched to his chest in a vain attempt to calm himself enough to sleep. Perhaps, he thinks, with yet another night of sleep — one without damnable medications and potions — Noctis' mind will clear itself, allow him to discern the truth of the things he has allegedly seen and done.


	16. The Way Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under guise of a contract, Noctis departs Gralea and heads for the Fodina Caestino, seeking answers as to the true nature of the Lucian royal line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wanted to post this earlier in the week, and at twice the current length, but a lot has happened. I was in an accident early last Monday on my way home from work, and my car was badly damaged. Neither myself nor anyone else was hurt, but it's going to cost a lot of money to fix, and thus I've been pretty stressed. I also have a board exam tomorrow afternoon, and have picked up additional shifts throughout the month for bonus pay (which is really going to help in regards to my car and other expenses).
> 
> Needless to say, I'm not terribly thrilled with 2021 thus far, but I am hoping it gets better. 
> 
> Due to everything I have going on, this chapter has been split into two, and I'll do what I can to get the next one wrapped up and posted when I can. If you're looking for me in the meantime, I am regularly on tumblr as scourgeborne, which is where I write my trash son, Ardyn.
> 
> It's been an interesting year thus far. I hope the rest of you are faring well!

The notice is sudden, and not in a good way.

Noctis stands firm in the doorway of the darkened study, a worn duffel bag slung over one shoulder. After having avoided his uncle for the better part of a week, he seems to have gone behind Ardyn's back to accept a hunt for some volatile beast within the Fodina Caestino of Cartanica. To add further insult, he has elected to only now inform the chancellor on his way out the door.

He is far more convinced now that Noctis is withholding things from him than he was initially on their journey back to Gralea.

A pinched look settles into place, newspaper folded several times in odd places and pushed to one side of the desk. Suspicion reigns in the elder man's expression, and Noctis gives no indication that he's noticed. Though there _is_ a dreaded distance in his brightly colored eyes the likes of which a parent might expect from an unruly teenager.

Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. Noctis has lived almost the entirety of his life as a soldier under the chancellor's command rather than as a boy or even a citizen of the empire. The time may well have come for him to exhibit a bit of a rebellious streak, albeit a good ten years too late.

And, wouldn't you know it, in the midst of a goddamn war.

"Hm. What was the contract for again?"

"Some kinda malboro. With all the moisture of late, they say it's been spawning more frequently." Noctis shrugs, and it looks forced. "Guess they're afraid the damn things'll eventually cause trouble for the trains."

Wonderful. On top of the hellish temper tantrums he's been subjected to by Iedolas and the man's moronic council of late, Ardyn now finds himself faced with insubordination from the very last person he thought capable of it. He has most assuredly been too lax in regards to discipline these many years, and that failure is now coming back to bite him, too.

The apprehension in Noctis' expression prompts muted amusement, the boy forcing himself to remain in place as Ardyn stands and the gap between them becomes nothing. The boy's chin is taken in a gloved hand, head tilted upward to meet sharp eyes. With his jaw clenched tight, perhaps Noctis is _expecting_ to be struck across the face. He will not deny kt has been a tempting notion of late.

Tension still lingers in the boy's lean frame as he's pulled to Ardyn's shoulder, long fingers catching in a mess of black hair in something reminiscent of an embrace. He's never been terribly good at such gestures, having found them rather awkward and unnecessary even as a man. Noctis eases into it all the same, strap of the bag slipping down the length of his arm to fall heavily against the floor at their feet.

"Finish this quickly, _and come home._ Do _not_ make me come looking for you, Noctis. I promise that you _won't_ like what happens."

* * *

He doesn't feel the least bit good lying to Ardyn – and never has – but there is something about the chancellor's telling of events within the Citadel that doesn't sit quite right with him. If Noctis is being honest with himself, he has reason to doubt the other man's incredibly cryptic explanations, for Ardyn seems to have developed a habit of manipulating the truth where he's concerned. He doesn't understand why.

His brow furrows, dark clouds looming high overhead as the platform echoes with the sound of heavy foot traffic. Streams of people depart the trains on either side of the tracks, some shuffling hurriedly about while others meander, taking in the sights and stopping for photographs. In particular, the curiously large tree towering high above the mining trenches draws immense attention.

The Caestino is known throughout the Succarpe region as once being the most profitable mining site in Niflheim. In earlier days, innumerable variants of ore and other natural supplies had been shipped throughout the empire aboard the trains. Back then, as history tells it, the nations of Eos had not been quite so hostile towards one another, and had enjoyed peace the likes of which the people of this day and age may well never have chance to see.

A folded and wrinkled sheet of paper is pulled from within a back pocket, clenched in hand as Noctis' disinterested gaze sweeps over the lettering. Yes, the presented intention _had_ been to aid the local hunters in their quest to take down a particularly irksome malboro, but it remains the furthest thing from his mind. There have been rumors circulating for quite some time that, beneath the surface of the star and the base of the great tree, rests a tomb of the ancient Lucian people, bearing the interred remains of a ruler of yore.

It shouldn't call to him so strongly, this story, for he had made the choice some time ago to cast aside Lucis and all that it stands for. Even with this in mind – and the terrible repercussions should Ardyn uncover the truth of his deception – Noctis finds himself irrevocably drawn to the history of his discarded people, and aches with a need to investigate the rumor for himself.

The page is shoved haphazardly into the pocket of his jacket, a black number not unlike the rest of his wardrobe, and makes for the stairway overlooking the trenches below. Massive as the mine appears from this height, the tree itself looks much like an umbrella, its foliage startlingly green in comparison to the copper color of the surrounding earth. Truly, this great thing has drawn most of the water in the area to its base, and it will be surprising indeed if it has not become home to all manner of volatile creatures.

Quick work is made of looking over his supplies – a tent, alongside a variety of small cans of food, elemancy flasks, and emergency curatives if the need should arise – before Noctis takes to the lift, stepping into the creaking metallic cage and jamming a finger into one of the buttons. It lurches, twists his stomach as it begins to move, the descent down the shaft a slow and uneasy crawl in comparison to the steady pace of his own steps atop the railway platform.

Bag clasped in one hand, Noctis lifts the other, a flash of blue light and hot sparks appearing as he summons a dagger from his Armiger. Strange that his magic has always manifested the color of the sea as opposed to Ardyn's transcendental red. Truly, he's never doubted that the pair of them bear within them the same blood, if only for the uncanny abilities they are both able to call upon. There is something missing, however, and whatever it is has sought to make itself known to him in the wake of the king's death. No, in the wake of _his father's death._

Even embittered and angry with the man for leaving him behind, Noctis has never once wished him dead. He would have been content with Regis' voiced regret, the man understanding of the gravity of his mistake in Tenebrae, but this? Noctis finds it odd now, after so much time, that he's not once thought to reflect upon how his actions in the service of Niflheim might well bring to pass the death of the man he once called father.

The sudden creak of the lift cage startles him, and the doors ease open, presenting a steep decline into the depths of the Caestino. At first glance, it appears steady enough, but further inspection confirms that he should indeed watch his step, for old bits of rubble and debris line the path. With no desire to topple over the lip of the trench and into the waiting mouths of beasts, he remains close to the wall of earth on his left, steadily making his way down.

Daylight already has begun to wane by the time Noctis reaches even ground, heavy precipitation falling into his hair and rolling down his neck. The hood of his jacket is pulled up, clip-on flashlight cutting a vivid beam through the darkening air. His bag is still clenched tightly in one hand while the other again calls upon a weapon: A sword this time, lightweight enough to be wielded with one hand, but bearing in it enough heft to take down those unfortunate enough to meet the point or curve of its blade.

Dirt begins to loosen as it turns to mud, thick muck rising up as high as the eyelets of scuffed boots the further on he walks. In the dim light, a large and winding stretch of the tree's root can be seen protruding from beneath the earth, creating a sort of bridge across a small chasm. The root itself is sturdy and thick enough to hold the weight of several men, but too narrow for more than one to cross at a time. Noctis makes note that, should daemons or beasts choose to attack, it may prove wise for him to retreat to the other side.

He crosses, rain beginning to soak through the material of his hood, and ventures a bit further until he comes upon a tiered stairway reaching up the wall to the chasm's lip. While it is not the most secure place to make camp, it will do for now, and the metal platforms overhead will block out much of the rain. His boots come down heavy upon the first set of stairs, and it is not until he reaches the third platform that Noctis presses his back to the dirt wall and takes a seat.

The sword easily within reach, he rummages through his bag for a water-resistant blanket, draping it over his shoulders to preserve heat. A spherical flask too is withdrawn, bearing within the thrumming power of fire magic, warm to the touch. He tucks it within his jacket, satisfied as the material steadily begins to dry out.

It is here that he will wait out the storm, and carry on when the long night has passed.

* * *

One would imagine that, after so much time encased in darkness, a man would seek out the light. Such is not the case with the chancellor, for it is within the unforgiving blackness of the night that he comes as close to peace as he has ever been.

The streets of Gralea beneath Zegnautus, while bright and lively, pale utterly in comparison to the other great cities of Eos. There is culture and comfort to be found upon the waves of Altissia, a light-hearted freedom and curiosity within Insomnia's grasp. Here, however, the city functions much like a machine, from the steady machinations of trains and overhead tramways right down to the very movements of the people themselves.

Iedolas has established a strange sense of order in this corner of the world, uneasy as it still remains behind the scenes. The citizenry, while oblivious to the finer details, has developed a sixth sense for detecting developing chaos in the wake of the late empress' passing, for their leader himself has been less than secretive as to his overarching ambitions and ruthlessness. Government funding has served only to emphasize the strength of the nation's military efforts and underhanded research projects in the capital, leaving the rest of the territories scrounging for scraps.

The very thought of the man brings a crease to Ardyn's brow, his petty whimpering of late near enough to push Adagium to incite full-blown insurrection. While Regis may now lie dead in some elaborate coffer, the Crystal remains still in Lucian hands, allegedly dormant. In truth, it matters not. But Iedolas has so willingly bought into the lie of potential immortality, that Ardyn cannot help but to be irritated with himself for having ever proposed such a preposterous thing.

Ah, well. A bit late for regret now.

At the edge of the Keep's rooftop, he lingers, perched like some great gargoyle overlooking the city centuries in the making. In his time, such a place would not have been believed possible with such staggering marvels of modern technology, leaps and bounds made by scientific fact and theory. Were he not to have seen the modern era with his own eyes, Ardyn too would have mocked the absurdity of it all. He does even now, though in a very different fashion.

Adagium finds mortal reliance upon their electronic trinkets terribly dissatisfying, the lot of them wrapped up in the intangible worlds existing on pixelated screens. They've no appreciation for the world as it is – as it was – and are certain to dismiss all that it might become.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. It is of no importance. By way of the gods' own foolishness has the end of this star been written in innocent blood. Whether or not the people of Eos incline their heads to the Astrals is of no importance, for their empty lives will soon cease all the same.


	17. Birthright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if guided by some unseen force, Noctis ventures through the Fodina Caestino, to seek out the nearest source of his growing fascination with the Lucian kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, at the start of yet another week. I still don't have my car back, as it's being repaired, but I did pass my boards, so I will have more time to dedicate to writing. 
> 
> As I mentioned at the start of the last chapter, 16 and 17 were originally supposed to be one, but I had to split them because the narrative started to feel very muddled. I've rewritten this chapter a couple times this week, and while I'm not completely pleased with it, I'm having a hard time determining what else I can change to make it flow better. 
> 
> There's a good chance that, as time goes on, I will be rewriting small parts of a few chapters, if only to make myself feel a bit better. 
> 
> Thank you for supporting this story! I started it on a whim at the end of Fall semester, and I'm genuinely surprised at how much traction it has gained. If you are just starting today, or have been following from the beginning, I appreciate you tremendously. uwu If you have a moment, please let me know how you think I'm doing!

Daylight arrives, and with it a newfound vigor in this Noctis' self-assigned venture.

An elastic tie is removed from around one wrist, pulling hair up into a messy ponytail and packing away what little had been used for comfort the night prior. Even with research and hearsay on his side, there is still no way to be certain what manner of foul beasts lurk within the Caestino — short of encountering them all himself. And so it is decided that he is safer to perhaps rest intermittently as he goes rather than establish a solid campsite.

Content with the decision, Noctis descends the steps of his perch, satisfied with the absence of animal tracks at the stairwell's base. It would seem the storm drew out some of the area's creatures while forcing others to retreat. While still on guard, he tucks this information away and eases back across the thick root to the chasm's center near the base of the tree.

As Noctis makes his approach through the thick morning fog, several smaller roots and low-hanging branches are noted to have woven together to create a series of cavelike structures. Numerous as they are, they have entwined themselves around various small machines — bulldozers and the like — that must have once been used to sift through the quarry's dirt and harvest the ore.

Making first for the darkened caverns, he is made to trek through several pools knee-deep muck and grime, vines and swathes of moss pushed aside as he ducks into the caverns, scouring the space ahead for any signs of a tomb. If memory serves, there exist several others across the planet, predominantly housed in lands once belonging to Lucis, and there is no doubt that the merciless hand of time has worn many of them down to little more than rubble. This one, should it exist within the Caestino at all, may well be submerged in water or even play home to daemons and beasts by now. Regardless, Noctis reasons, he cannot leave without an answer, and must see this through to the end.

Eyes are blown wide and mouth agape in a startled shout as the ground abruptly slips out from beneath him, fresh mud caking his back and hair as he slides quickly down a surprise incline. Lost in thought and resolve, he'd missed it in the dim light of the cavern, and twists around in a vain attempt to summon and sink a dagger into the sopping wet earth behind him. It dislodges easily, too slick for the weapon to hold any purchase, and so he tumbles backwards now down the slope, wincing at last as his head strikes against something solid at the bottom.

_"Fuck..."_

The curse is hissed between clenched teeth, a wet hand palpating the back of his skull for any obvious deformity or damage. To the best of his knowledge, there is only pain and an inevitable welt, and Noctis waits out the bout of dizziness that overcomes him before taking hold of an overhead vine and rising shakily to his feet.

The lost dagger is recalled to hand, flashlight lens scraped clean of muck. Noctis huffs, kicking around in the mud for several minutes until the toe of his boot strikes something with a solid thud. The bag, just as filthy as the prince himself, is inundated with muck, and so it is with little concern that he again slings it up and over a shoulder.

Out of no more than irritation and curiosity, he continues to grope around in the dim light, hands falling upon what he determines to be a wall – likely where he struck his head – barring the continued descent beneath the tree. Further inspection indicates that the wall is in fact, _a door_ , massive and interwoven with earth and plant life. It no doubt is part of another machine, this one far larger than any he'd seen lingering in stagnant water on the surface above. What with the storm raging the night prior and the merciless fog that had settled within the trench, it is little wonder he didn't spot this metallic behemoth entwined within the tree's unyielding grasp.

The sheer size of the thing is astounding, and certainly explains the strong scent of rust permeating the air. He looks away, thinks to scale the incline as best he can, when a low, deep voice rings clear and true in Noctis' skull:

**_Step forward, young king._ **

A startling light flashes from behind, illuminating the cavern, and Noctis turns to stand slack-jawed as the door becomes as molten iron, melting away into nothing. The heat is staggering, stinging his eyes and skin even as both arms are lifted to shield his face. The air pops and sizzles in his ears, and while better judgement insists that he do everything possible to leave this place, a longing stirs deep within his gut as it did at the Citadel, urging his feet forward and onto the slick, mossy pathway of a wide underground cavern.

This place, buried for who knows how long beneath the Caestino, could well be what he's been looking for. A weapon is again summoned, strap of the bag adjusted to hang across his chest as Noctis this time makes a willing descent into the dark. A rank, musty smell strikes him full in the face, nose wrinkling in disapproval. To say that it stinks would be an understatement.

Never has Noctis been stranger to the bizarre, for the very beginning of his life in Niflheim had been nothing but. After several weeks of lying limp in a hospital bed, tended to by medical staff, he had awakened to an unsettling shock of those unnatural eyes evaluating him. The boy had been weak and fearful, made himself suffer through the chancellor's unnerving company day after day until such a time as he came to desire the man's presence. On the days that Ardyn did not show, he had felt panic well up in his chest, felt himself falling and unable to breathe, fearing that he had again been left behind.

And while he had always returned for Noctis, somewhere along the way, their understanding of one another had blurred. Thus the prince's half-baked lie and his waning trust in Ardyn's murky intentions.

Now standing knee-deep in dank green water, Noctis clenches a fist. There had been a sense of comfort there once, between himself and Ardyn, and he can't help but to wonder when and where it went. As a child, he had fought to keep the man's attention, even when chastised for poor behavior, doing everything and anything to guarantee that his uncle wouldn't one day leave him to someone else. He never had, but the events in Tenebrae had shaken the young prince, damaged his perception of self-worth, and so he had pushed himself to be all that the chancellor asked of him, even at the cost of his conscience.

**_Rise to the throne._ **

The voice booms once more in his head, this time accompanied by a searing heat behind his eyes. Noctis winces, free hand rising to clutch the side of his skull. Another sound, far louder and more jarring than the voice of the unknown, echoes throughout the cavern, the stagnant water itself beginning to shift and ripple. Pain is momentarily forgotten as a large chunk of earth and grime bursts towards him, forcing Noctis to hurriedly warp out of the way.

With both sight and aim limited by the dark, Noctis goes skidding through filthy water, righting himself just in time for the narrow beam of his flashlight to fall upon the great open maw of the last creature he expected to find.

It towers over him, even at a distance, its stench rank and raw as an open container of weeks-old compost and rotting flesh. Several rows of needlepoint teeth are coated in thick, sticky mucus, the excess dripping from the corners of a mouth that all but takes up the malboro's face. It almost appears to _grin_ at him, a chill rattling both teeth and spine as reluctance dawns upon him: In this darkness, in this fight, he has little recourse but to call upon the strength of the scourge.

A breath of foul air is drawn into his lungs, held fast a moment as he reaches for power within the mind's eye. It comes too quickly, eagerly, sweeping through his veins like fire, his gaze shifting from that of a dimly lit cavern to one of absolute clarity, tainted only by a violet hue around the edges.

It is in that moment that the beast lunges, sprays of water flying every which way as Noctis calls upon an unnatural strength with which to counter. The heft of a greatsword's pommel is clasped in both hands as he swings, a frightening burst of violet light engulfing the blade. It makes immediate contact with the malboro, the creature's momentum turned readily against it, and it produces a scream which serves to shake Noctis' very bones.

He moves quickly to one side as the monster lurches back, a stream of putrid blood arcing through the air. It roars again, and the untenable walls of the cavern begin to tremble, bits of dirt and debris falling into the water. Noctis grimaces, the pain searing through his skull once more, vision flickering. He grinds his teeth, flat of the greatsword resting upon a shoulder as he takes quickly to his pack, unfastening the zipper just enough to thrust a hand within and withdraw a flask.

Fire heats the glass beneath his fingertips, raging to be set free. Noctis lifts his gaze as the malboro charges once more, draws an arm back just in time to pitch the flask forward and into the creature's open mouth. Seemingly taken by surprise, it pauses only a moment before it begins to spit mucus and shudder, bright orange light emanating from behind its rows of teeth.

Noctis bites hard into his lower lip, warping to a far point on a distant wall, and launching himself towards the beast with as much force as he can muster. The Starscourge weighs heavy in his veins, hands still clutching the hilt of the greatsword, and Noctis can only shout in pain and frustration as he charges straight into the open mouth of the malboro and out the other side.

The weapon falls from his grasp and he goes flying through the water, coated in the monster's vile blood as it screams, now a writhing mass of teeth and tentacles. It keens, lurching from side to side, fire erupting in hot spurts from its hulking figure. Try as it might, the water does nothing to quell the flames, and the malboro begins to strike the nearby cavern walls, again bringing down chunks of earth and stone.

To Noctis' horror, it slams itself repeatedly against the incline leading up and out of the cavern, the loud crackling of fire quickly drowning out the screams as, at last, the malboro descends into the murky water in a charred heap.

Sword forgotten, Noctis is cautious in his approach, a second flask clasped in hand in the event that the beast is not yet through. He breathes a sigh of relief when the hulking form begins to dissipate, indicating the malboro's certain demise. As it fades away, keen eyes fall upon a mess of moss and vines tucked up beneath the incline leading out of the cavern, barring what appears to be a pale door carved of stone.

He breathes slowly, his muddied and aching hands rising to swipe at golden eyes. Even as the effects of the Starscourge begin to recede, the sight of the door remains, and it is without another thought that Noctis pitches the second flask into the mess of overgrown greenery, watching eagerly as the flames eat it all away. Rushing forward, his hands fall against the carved slab of stone, disappointment overtaking him at the sight of a small, yet obvious, keyhole. He has no such artifact in his possession, had no knowledge that such a thing would even be needed, and so it is with great regret that Noctis swears under his breath and turns away.

The cavern itself begins to tremble in time with fists clenched at the prince's sides, massive pieces of earth torn from the ceiling high above, and Noctis begins to fear that he too will become a permanent part of this place. The floor beneath him feels as though it may wrench itself in twain, swallow him whole, and when he calls to hand a weapon with which to warp away, Noctis is stopped cold by yet another stabbing pain.

**_Reclaim your birthright._ **

Without reason, he turns back to the door as it parts, an ornate cavern fit only for royalty bared before him. The tenuous shaking of the earth subsides more with each hesitant step forward, and Noctis quickly finds himself standing within the tomb itself, staring down at a strange coffer in the shape of an armored man with a weapon laid between stone hands.

**_O, Chosen King, beloved by the Star._ **

Again does the voice echo in his mind, visions presented by the Crystal flitting before wide eyes. He once more sees the golden fields of wheat, a masked man with a great blade, a young woman bearing the features of the Lady Oracle, a man with his own face, and...

_"Ardyn?"_

The visions grow dark as he looks upon the chancellor, the man's warm and gentle features twisted into the daemonic appearance Noctis has only ever been witness to a time or two before. He's _never_ liked that look, the darkness in his uncle's eyes, the pleasure he found in the act of needless slaughter. Noctis grimaces, shakes the sight away, seeking to cling instead to the image of the man in white.

The spirit – his mother – had referred to the man by another name, one of great pride and status in both this world and that of the past: Ardyn Lucis Caelum, he who was chosen by the gods themselves to serve as the Founder King. But it had been another, his brother, _Somnus,_ who brought the nation to its feet. All the same, Noctis wonders just how a man of ancient Lucis could live on in the present.

Staring down at filthy palms, the revelation pieces itself together and strikes him full in the chest, the answer more obvious than he had thought possible: _The Starscourge._ If the Crystal is to be believed — and there is little reason for Noctis to doubt — the healer, Ardyn, had believed mankind _worth saving_ from the ravages of this plague. Enough so that he had given his own body for the sake of preserving the lives of the people.

If nothing else, by drawing it into himself, becoming open to it, the Starscourge had served to preserve him all this time.

Noctis swallows around the lump in his throat, rather ashamed that it has taken him this long to really sit down and evaluate his visions. He has been too caught up in placing distance between them, too focused on determining what it is _he_ wants out of life to bother making sense of any of it.

No. In truth, he has wasted all this time dismissing the visions as no more than fever dreams, clinging to the idea of a life that he thought he had with Ardyn. A life that, the more he learns, seems to be naught but a lie.

_**For the sake of Star and soul alike, step forward**._

Against the pleading of his nerves, Noctis does as he is asked and extends an arm toward the coffer, startled as the weapon – a sword – clasped fast and immovable betwixt stone hands, glows an iridescent blue. It rises high above him, physical form melting away into naught but a light which strikes him square in the chest, bringing with it a strange feeling of peace and overwhelming power.

**_O, Chosen, Savior of the Star. Venture forth across these lands and reclaim the strength of thine birthright left unto thee by thine forebears. Only then shalt thou Ascend to stand against the Immortal Accursed, Harbinger of Death and Darkness, and bring Light unto the world once more._ **


	18. Danger Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ardyn works to further his own ambiguous ambitions by way of an unofficial contract with one Commodore Aranea Highwind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not forget to update this, I've simply been very busy picking up extra shifts for that sweet overtime pay. Apologies for the wait, and my thanks for keeping up with this.

There are no words adequate enough to describe his loathing for that face, those eyes, that grating voice. Would that he could snuff it all out, erase the man from existence, he would seize such an opportunity. How lamentable that the extent of the damage he can do is corporeal alone, while the intangible echo of the scars he bears continue to wreak unholy havoc upon the mind.

It is truly a pitiable waste of all the hatred he has allowed to fester.

The sight of this man, though infrequent and fleeting, only ever serves to stir in him the aches of ages past. It is during these times alone that memories – be they his own or not is unclear – filter into the mind like morning light through window panes, illuminating particles of dust hanging on the air. He sees in these sparing visions a lone pair of hazy figures lacking faces, often tall with voices, too, distorted beyond recognition. The only one he knows on sight is that of the man he hates – often seen as but a round-faced boy – staring up at him with something mirroring adoration.

Where did that go, he wonders. The nature of their separation is lost to him, distant, though the inevitable outcome still remains terribly vivid.

_Brother?_

A long stretch of hallway appears before him, and he looks down at his hands and arms, lacking the wounds that will someday cause only anguish. He turns, the smaller figure clutching the folds of off-white robes, staring up at him in earnest.

_What is it, Somnus?_

The voice that emerges sounds distant, so unlike his own. It lacks the edge to which he has grown accustomed, the gravel of years spent screaming his throat raw. Why, one might even go so far as to say it is the voice of warmth.

_We'll always be together, won't we?_

Though a part of him scoffs, spits venom, the other smiles, places gentle hands upon the smaller boy's shoulders, drawing him into an embrace.

_Of course, we will, Som. Don't you know what they say about brothers? We're bound together, always. And not just by blood._

"It would seem you _continue_ to try my patience, Ardyn."

The fatigued and hardened voice of His Radiance is a grating sound, the brunt of irritable derision cast at the fool of a man who believes himself Adagium's handler. How gravely mistaken he is; his strings have been wound tightly about Ardyn's fingers from their first meeting, Iedolas hanging desperately upon his every word in his venture for life eternal. The recovery is swift, mask of the foppish chancellor playing across his features and once more treating mandated attendance to this meeting as though it is but a joke beneath his notice.

_It is._

"Oh? My apologies; did you say something?"

Ardyn does not bother to hide his mockery of this man, always to the shock of politicians and bureaucrats alike. He's heard the whispers, the lot of them trading gossip as to _why and how_ it is the chancellor has managed to keep his position – _and his head_ – in the wake of such open disrespect.

Iedolas wears a wry smile, and tongue can be seen tracing his lower lip in a moment of stern contemplation. Robes stretch and stiffen as he leans forward in his seat, turned just enough to face Ardyn on his right, who maintains alarming eye contact and that typically smug expression.

What an absolute _bore_ these meetings are. Best to liven things up a bit.

"The Crystal, _Chancellor_." The title is spat with irritation, the rapt attention of all others in attendance fixated upon the pair. "What of _my Crystal?"_

"Beg pardon, Your Radiance," Ardyn draws a hand to his mouth as he yawns, several brows around the table arching skyward in increasing shock, "but, seeing that the Crystal still remains in Lucian hands, I hardly think one could go so far as to call it _yours_."

He has done well in needling the emperor whose weathered hands strike the table with open palms as he stands. His fury is poorly contained, and yet the chancellor remains unfazed, shifting in his seat so as to rest an elbow upon the table in an additional and unnecessary display of boredom.

The silence itself is thick enough to suffocate, those in attendance flicking eyes forward and back between the pair, though they remain blessedly silent. At long last, Verstael himself – seated to Iedolas' left – finds the fortitude with which to grumble and roll his eyes, voicing his distaste with Ardyn's games.

"What of it, then?" he snaps, and a corner of Adagium's mouth curves upward in amusement.

"The Crystal itself is of little importance." Ardyn shrugs, chin resting in an open palm. The emperor bristles but seats himself slowly, a quiet aggravation burning away at the wick that is this his mortality. "From the moment King Regis was felled has it been dormant. If one is to believe the rumor mill, that is."

Iedolas contemplates this, still looking very much as though he'd like to strangle him, what with that noticeable crease in his brow. "What are you _saying_ , Chancellor?"

Ardyn holds his breath but a moment, biting back a snort.

"I am saying, my old friend, that Niflheim took from Lucis _all that was necessary_ , and nothing more."

He can see them, the varied bureaucrats and politicians, gripping the arms of their seats until they are white-knuckled with anticipation. It is only natural, having been cooped up here in Gralea, for them to wonder precisely what spoils Ardyn's spur of the moment invasion has netted the empire.

Much as he does so love the element of surprise and his daring theatrics, an explanation is perhaps due. If only to keep them all eating out of his hand.

"In effect, the Lucians have lost not only king and Crystal, but the protection of their beloved wall."

Iedolas has little interest in things beyond the narrowed scope of his ambition to outmatch Solheim, the casualties and technicalities be damned so long as he gets what he wants. This has been known to Ardyn for years and, as the man makes to speak, he is stopped cold by the chancellor's gloved hand producing an ornate black band between two fingers.

A series of murmurs erupt within the chamber, a steady blur of movement on the far wall drawing Ardyn's attention for but a second. It would seem Glauca has, at last, seen fit to grace them with his indomitable presence.

"Is that–?"

"But of course," Ardyn purrs, careful to keep the trinket just out of reach. "Have you so little faith in me, after all these years, that you truly believed I would return with nothing? I must say, I'm a touch insulted."

"Spare us your nonsense, Chancellor. What of the boy?"

Ever the killjoy, the man behind the magitek mask. The ring disappears into a closed fist, spirited away from curious eyes by way of Ardyn's own talents. Glauca is fixed with lazy eyes, the appeal of a willing audience having grown rather tedious.

"Do you speak of Noctis? Oh, I'm afraid he's ventured out to Cartanica for a few days. You know how troublesome those trench beasts can be, General." He gives a lazy shrug, certain that Glauca must be scowling at him by now. "A boy does need time for himself, too, you know."

Even with his face obscured from view, the chancellor recognizes the intensity of the other man's stare, and smiles all the more.

"The boy is a Lucian royal. How certain are you that he will not unravel the truth of the matter and turn?"

Naturally, the general is a stickler for certainty, perhaps even a bit of a perfectionist in the manner in which he maintains his troops, both human and otherwise. How fitting that he would take this very prominent opportunity to bring Ardyn's own methods of control and order into question.

"And what truth might that be, General? Surely you can't mean that of his birthright as the next Lucian king. Though hardly any of your concern, if it serves to satisfy, I have been rather upfront with Noctis as to his lineage from the start. He doesn't seem terribly invested in fulfilling that calling, considering his dearly departed father – _may he rest in peace_ – left the poor boy for dead."

"It does not," comes the growl, and Ardyn shrugs once more, dismissing the general entirely with a curt wave of his hand.

"Then I am afraid you will have to settle for disappointment."

"Enough of this!"

It becomes quickly apparent that Iedolas has grown weary of their senseless back and forth, and before the doddering old fool can launch fully into a tantrum, Ardyn stands, electing to take his leave. The emperor, the alleged leader of this empire of war and decay, is regarded with no more than a coy smile, the remaining attendants ignored in their entirely. He skirts around the table, maintaining eye contact with the man who would see Adagium chained to his side, daring him to make any effort to stop his departure. Much to his credit, Iedolas holds his tongue, but it lasts only long enough for the chancellor to slip out and shut the chamber doors before the tirade, at last, begins.

The sound of shouting is but a full echo down the hall, the winding corridors or Zegnautus navigated with unsettling ease. The keep is, in and of itself, reminiscent of some mechanical hell, perched high above the city streets, a great vulture which stares down upon Gralea's subjects as it waits to again take flight. Clearly, he spends far too much time in this place, be it by choice or necessity, it matters not.

A rush of shadows serve to avoid the tedium of numerous stairways, the act of drawing them forth from darkened corners as natural to him now as drawing breath. Ardyn rounds the corner, darkness trailing off into the air like ash on wind, an arm outstretched to catch hold of the woman seeking to turn him the opposite direction.

"Not running away, are you, Commodore?"

Tension remains in her posture even as her head drops forward a bit, likely in defeat, heels clicking against the floor as she turns to face him.

"Hardly," she retorts, and there's a flicker of disdain in her viridian eyes. "I have work to do. Don't you?"

Commodore Aranea Highwind cannot stand him, and the mercenary turned soldier makes no effort to hide it. Since her installment, she has always been rather forthright in her opinion of the goings-on within the empire, the latest of which to reach him being her distaste for the magitek infantry steadily replacing human troops. As a result, she's been quite adamant in her refusal to command daemon-infused machinery, and Ardyn finds her defiance oddly satisfying.

"Nothing of particular importance springs to mind at the moment," he chuckles, and the crease in her brow grows deeper. Ardyn casts his gaze up one end of the hall and down the other, returning to Aranea with a twinge of disappointment. "No Kratos, I see."

Arms fold across her chest, a lithe silver brow cast skyward. "He's in good hands. What with people running around the compounds playing god with Chief Besithia's critters, I decided he would be safer elsewhere."

But of course she had caught wind of his little game with Noctis and the havocfang, for Verstael had been stewing and ranting about it for weeks now. Dreadful, however, that she would think so ill of him as to assume that he'd play such a dirty trick on a sweet old dog, of all things.

"Oh, I don't play god, my dear. _There is no such thing, I assure you._ "

The commodore's expression remains the same, skeptical and uncertain of the intent behind Ardyn's words. Her guard doesn't falter even as hands move to rest on hips as she shifts her weight to one side. She doesn't like him, doesn't want him anywhere near her, and yet she is not the least bit interested in backing down.

"Right, whatever. Mind telling me what could possibly be so important that the chancellor himself has chosen today to get in my way?"

"Nothing of any official importance. A small personal favor. You and your men will, of course, be rewarded handsomely."

Though caution remains prominent in her air, a small smile tugs at her lips – and not one of amusement. Intrigue, rather. The commodore sighs then, one arm falling to her side, though the mischief in her eyes remains

"Tell you what, Chancellor: You pay off my tab at the bar this evening, let me name the price for my services, and I'll seriously consider doing you this so-called favor."

Ruthless and to the point. No wonder he's always liked her.

_"Consider it done."_

* * *

There is precious little upon the face of Eos that serves to frighten her. Years prior, back when she had first joined the army, it would have been the likes of daemons howling in the dark, or perhaps the incumbent threat of Lucian soldiers arriving to ambush her unit in the field. These days, however, Aranea has no reason to fear monsters or men, for both can be incapacitated or even killed with the proper tactics and timing.

If anything unnerves her now, it's that weasel of a chancellor lurking in the shadow of the emperor.

Frankly, the man is an irritant, unpredictable and strange to the degree that it is hardly believable that he holds such influence over imperial politics. His silver tongue seems capable of an unnatural amount of sway where Iedolas Aldercapt and his council are concerned, and with the increasingly rash decisions made by His Radiance of late, the commodore cannot help but to think that Ardyn himself is behind it all.

She can't be the only person in the whole of Niflheim who has noticed the nation's drastic shift in priorities.

Call it paranoia, but she can't find it in herself to give an inch and trust the man, even for a second. Which begs the question as to why it is she's sitting at a bar in downtown Gralea, waiting for the bastard to show up to discuss this favor he mentioned.

Gloves are set off to one side of the counter, a forefinger tracing the lip of the glass which sits half empty before her. Aranea is more than capable of holding her liquor, her tolerance for the stuff having only increased along with her stressors over the years, but there is a nagging at the back of her skull that insists she take pause until such time as Ardyn has made his intentions known.

"Were you waiting long?"

Her reaction is swift, a small knife pulled from within the sleeve of the commodore's dominant hand as she turns. Aranea does not regret leveling the dagger at him — for he's had the audacity to lay a hand upon her shoulder — its shine a startling reflection in the man's strangely colored eyes. He cocks his head at her, still wearing that stupid smirk, and while she tucks the weapon away, Aranea seriously considers giving him a good stick for the hell of it.

"No," she snaps, glass snatched up and drawn to her lips, the remainder of the drink drained away. It touches down upon the countertop with too much force, drawing the attention of the bartender who lingers at the far end. She shakes her head, indicating that the other woman needn't fret over the unnerving nature of her unwelcome companion. "So, what's this favor? I don't have all night."

Ardyn seems to disregard the question, staring over the commodore's shoulder as he takes a seat beside her, brow knit in contemplation or perhaps concern. He is distant in that moment, far removed from this place, appearing to respond to something or someone Aranea herself cannot see or hear. That is deeply concerning. She's never pegged the man as normal, let alone sane, and this behavior in the dim light of the bar only serves to reinforce her theory that he is, at the very least, odd.

He draws a deep breath, an elbow resting atop the counter, focusing his attention on her once more. She almost shudders.

"You and my nephew are acquainted, yes?"

A shrug. "I suppose you could say that."

In truth, she and Noctis — the soldier, the assassin, or whatever the hell he is — have met only a time or two before, always in passing within the barracks or in the underground training hall. Rumors had followed him since he was but a child brought to Gralea, a shy little thing trailing after the chancellor with his head bowed and eyes glued to the floor. Ardyn had always referred to him as _the boy_ more often than anything else, yet made claim that the child was his nephew, the son of a distant and unnamed relative. Aranea had never once believed him, knowing well the chancellor's reputation for deception, but...

"He was last sighted in Cartanica four days ago. I want you to find Noctis, and bring him home unharmed."

She doesn't mean to stare, let alone gape, but the request is so far removed from anything the commodore had anticipated. Truthfully, what with her background as a mercenary, she had expected the chancellor to make some illicit request of her, offer to pay her under the table for something along the lines of smuggling or an assassination. That the favor is the retrieval of his nephew is, in a word, shocking.

"You're joking, right?" While his expression indicates otherwise, Aranea continues to push: "He's — what — twenty-two?"

"Twenty- _four._ "

She chuckles. "My point still stands. He's a grown man, Chancellor, not a child. I don't understand why this errand is necessary."

It is evident then that she has made a mistake, the warm glow of amusement in the man's eyes shifting to something frightfully dark and akin to anger. While his expression remains passive and unperturbed, the sudden shift in posture, the abrupt lack of distance between them as he takes her by the chin, indicates that he is deadly serious. He's close enough now that the commodore can smell the hint of aftershave.

_"You need not trouble yourself with inconsequential details, Commodore. Do we have an accord, or shall I extend the offer to someone else?"_

"Five hundred thousand," she blurts, and daringly thrusts a hand against the man's shoulder, pushing him back. "If you want me to keep my head down and follow orders, that's my price. No further questions asked."

_"Is that all?"_

Aranea takes pause as he settles back into his seat, scoffing at the incredulity of the question. "And a second ship that I'll take upfront."

Once more, the chancellor's attention is somewhere far away, and she makes note of the fact that, while silent, _he appears to be talking to himself._ Odd doesn't quite fit the bill anymore. She's willing to bet hard cash that the man is certifiably mad as a hatter.

_No pun intended._

Her heart skips a beat as their eyes meet, anger having faded while a hint of wickedness remains, poorly masked by the warmth she knows now to be false.

"I did agree to let you name your price, did I not?" That damned glint returns to his eye, accompanied by the smile that seeks to mock her. As he offers a hand, Aranea hedges, notes a slight tremor working its way down the chancellor's arm as if he is somehow _struggling to maintain his composure._ "Do we have a deal, Commodore?"

Jaw set and shoulders squared, she slaps her hand into his, allows fingernails to bite into the cool leather of his glove.

_"Yeah. We do."_

"Wonderful. Report to Zegnautus at daybreak, and you will have your ship."

The next few minutes are but a blur in her mind, a sea of hazy light and stark shadows. Aranea can hear herself breathing, the echo deafening and slow, time feeling as though it may very well come to an abrupt halt. The chancellor moves, undoubtedly excusing himself like the gentleman he pretends to be. A chill skirts across her skin, sudden and unwelcome, and it takes several seconds for the commodore to realize that this devil of a man has seen fit to draw fingers across her cheek in an audacious gesture of familiarity.

_His hands are cold as death._

She blinks, scans the small room to find the man missing, and turns back toward the counter to see the bartender combing through a small handful of large banknotes.

Whether or not Ardyn Izunia keeps his promises is irrelevant. There is something very wrong with the man, and Aranea doesn't trust him worth a damn.


	19. In Fate's Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto and company reach Alstor Slough under less-than-ideal circumstances. With the assistance of her imperial retinue, Lunafreya leaves Tenebrae against her brother's wishes, intending to seek out Noctis. Ardyn, having sent Commodore Highwind to locate and fetch the prince, remains in Gralea to further his machinations against Lucis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been three weeks since I updated last, but with the extra shifts I've picked up, I've been pretty burnt out. I'm not going to give up on writing this, but understand that I may not be able to update every week or two as I initially thought I could. Thanks for sticking with me through this. And huge thanks to Phoe for being the cheerleader fot this chaos noodle!

"Do we _have_ to walk?"

Prompto's face is flushed and red, sweat beading upon his brow and falling quickly down the bridge of the gunman's nose. He gives an irritable huff, loudly forcing all air from his lungs even as his companions – who are also visibly uncomfortable and fatigued – trudge along ahead of him.

He's just chosen to say something about it.

This had not been in the cards, the hunt upon which they've now embarked. Trekking along the edges of the murky slough and into dense woods, Prompto kicks at the occasional colorful mushroom cluster with the toe of a boot, scowling all the while.

"How else are we gonna get there?" Gladiolus retorts, swiping the back of a hand across his forehead. He turns to glance at Prompto over a broad shoulder, eyebrows raised. _"Magic?"_

One hand remains at his belt, fingers loose around the handle of the gun. In the handful of days since they departed Hammerhead, the three of them have been seemingly plagued with tremendous ill fortune, too easily ambushed by magitek troops and beasts alike. And with no sign of the prince, let alone any rumors of him. They have no real leads, and, at this rate, Prompto figures, they'll be searching for months.

"That'd be a real improvement over water in my socks, dude." A pointless argument, but one he feels the need to voice, regardless.

In light of recent events – including, but not limited to, the ongoing political disarray within the Crown City – the region's local chocobo farm had posted a widespread bulletin across Lucis that the birds were no longer being offered for hire. As a result, the newly formed Crownsguard entourage was stuck hoofing it wherever His Majesty's car could not reach.

Which just so happened to be everywhere but the paved roads.

"Uh, this is the worst idea _ever_ , Iggy," he sighs once more, and kicks a nearby rock through the bushes. "Really. _I hate this._ "

"Yes, well," Ignis stops a short distance ahead to withdraw a small square of cloth from the pocket of his trousers, wiping a bit of condensation from his glasses, "I guarantee you will change your mind come this evening, when we've regained ample funds with which to rent a caravan."

_Oh. Right._

Within hours of the king's demise, news had spread that the empire would again be reinstating its various military blockades throughout Lucis. The trio had made a single stop mere hours before the reinstallation of the Norduscaen border, at a small hunter's camp a stone's throw from both Keycatrich Trench and Formouth Garrison. In line with the imperial announcement, a fresh batch of magitek troopers had been dispatched to patrol the surrounding area, thus making their secondary objective – that is, a more thorough investigation into the royal tombs – nigh impossible. When an approach under cover of night had been attempted, a handful of soldiers had taken them entirely by surprise. It had been in their haste to escape the enemy's growing numbers that the little gil they'd been gifted by one kind-hearted mechanic had been lost amid the skirmish.

Thus did Ignis, in all his brilliance, insist that, upon reaching the next available town in Duscae, they collect a bit of work hunting down local marks.

The gunman's shoulders slump forward in a defeated fashion. He groans again, loudly. "Yeah, well, _it still sucks._ "

"Great." With a whisper, Gladiolus is on his knees in the muck, a massive broadsword appearing across his shoulders. He turns to face them with a finger pressed to his lips. "Now that we've established the situation is shit, _keep it down._ This could get messy."

On cue, both gunman and tactician drop into a crouch, taking careful steps forward to peer through dense underbrush. There, in a small clearing not twenty meters ahead, stands a small pack of voretooths, squabbling over what little remains of a garulessa hide.

"Ready now?" Ignis lifts a hand to adjust his glasses. "On my signal."

Prompto inhales a breath of brisk pine-scented air, allowing it to slip out through his nose as he steadies himself. He's never been in a fight before. Not a real one, anyway. With his weapon drawn and finger ready to pull the trigger, he knows that combatting a troublesome pack of wild animals is about to be _very_ different than practicing with the Marshal.

* * *

_I'm scared, Luna. I don't know what's happening to me._

Those words had too easily managed to stand out among the pages exchanged between them, causing immense worry. Upon first glance, they had appeared illuminated in gold to her eye, emphatic and demanding her undivided attention. Lunafreya had been swift to reply, but thoughtful and encouraging as well, urging Noctis to trust in himself and go where the light sought to lead him. It had seemed an appropriate response, one steeped in concern and well wishes for the prince, her own prayers centered around him and his safety in particular, for his shepherd was none other than the Accursed himself.

It had also seemed a much more effective approach than pointing accusatory fingers at Ardyn, who had proven her suspicions as to his nature correct when last they met. While she herself might possess a more in-depth knowledge of the chancellor than the prince himself, it hardly struck the Lady Oracle as wise to expect poor Noctis to trust her word on the matter. Ardyn had, after all, spent years conditioning the boy to benefit his plans.

Beneath her fingertips, pages fly forward and back, obsessive as Lunafreya's brow is drawn into a frown ill-suited to her kind face. The world outside her window, hurtling past with uncanny speed, is beneath her notice, for she is lost reading between the lines of Noctis' messy scrawl, finding far more now in the lettering than she had thought to seek out before.

He is, to be gentle about it, terribly lost and confused. He finds himself trapped between the calling his heart desires to answer, and the life his mind has come to accept. And each is insistent to have its way.

It is that haunting entry, one dated only a day prior to King Regis' death, which continues to resonate with her. Chills break out across her skin as she hears the words – and in Noctis' voice – within her head again. She presses forward in the book once more, finding his next words, written just days later with no further explanation:

_No need to worry. Everything is fine._

There is something hollow in that line of text, something that sparks disgust deep within her. The edge of a nail faintly traces the letters, still messy and slanted, and Lunafreya finds herself struck with a sense of immediate revulsion.

Noctis _did not_ write this.

They've not known one another long, the last true meeting of a young prince and princess during the Lucian heir's convalescence, but Lunafreya is confident enough in her knowledge of his present conduct, his apprehension and awkwardness, to know that the prince himself did not lay pen to paper here.

"Lady Lunafreya?"

She lifts her gaze, the book spread open upon her lap, meeting the concerned face of a soldier, the head of her assigned retinue. He has been kind to her these many years, this captain, tasked with her safety and security above all else. In many ways, she regards him with a similar affection once offered unto her late father, be he of Niflheim nor not.

"Oh. Forgive me, Captain. My mind was elsewhere."

His is a weathered face, one that has seen more hardship than perhaps he deserves, but the shine in his eyes is gentle all the same. Lunafreya offers the seat opposite her, and the captain nods his thanks. Rough hands rest upon his knees, and he looks very much as though he'd like to curl in on himself.

Such an air is so very unlike him. She knows why.

"The High Commander," he says after a lengthy silence, and Lunafreya sighs. "I've received word he has returned to Fenestala, and..."

"He is cross," she says pointedly, finishing the thought. "As he should be."

It is not often that Lunafreya, the Oracle of the Six and former Princess of Tenebrae, is callous as to the feelings or wishes of others. Her brother, least of all. But this venture had been her decision, and hers alone, to escape from her home set beneath imperial rule, to seek out and aid the King of Light in a more active and effective fashion. Ravus – having spoken as her brother rather than the extended hand of her jailors – had forbidden it, and found himself called away to Gralea at the emperor's behest the very same day. Though, it is in all likelihood that Lunafreya too would have disregarded the will of the commander, and done just as she pleased.

It matters little now. The deed is done. Her mind has been made up. The empire will not stop her, and nor will her brother's disapproval.

The captain's hands surround her own, and while the world beyond the confines of the train may be fraught with ice and snow, his touch remains warm. Though he elects to say nothing, Lunafreya finds her unease waning, if only just a bit.

They will reach Piztala before nightfall, spend days crossing the Sathersea and into Cleigne, and the fates that be will inevitably bring Oracle and King together. The fated reunion cannot come too soon.

Her head bows in muted prayer.

_May the light guide you, Noctis._

* * *

"Tell me, Ardyn, has the Lucian Crystal truly fallen into a state of dormancy?"

The man's voice, while low and hardened by age, may as well not exist in the world in which the chancellor finds himself. Peering out over the city from atop the Keep, it is not a world of cold, stark shadows and minimalist structures he sees, but of open fields and smatterings of trees marking the distant horizon. Even in passing and all in fractured memory, it is terribly distracting.

They've been coming more frequently of late, these phantoms of people and places that no longer exist. More often than not do they gather dust now, lost in the recesses of his mind, blurring together with a sense of familiarity and the unknown. Some things are easily recognized. Others are simply lost. And more still set his blood to boiling over.

But this scene, the warmth of the sun high in the sky above, is not one which serves to distress, but soothe. An abnormal air of calm cuts through the adrenaline he should be feeling, being in possession of both prince and ring and on the brink of decimating Lucis in its entirety. Corruption is what runs in his blood, not satisfaction, and yet there is an uncanny serenity that overtakes him.

"It seems as if you are _trying_ to make me–"

"Oh, do _shut up,_ Verstael." Ardyn's gaze doesn't falter, fixated still upon the grey distance, his tone an exasperated growl. "You really are the only one who appreciates the grating sound of your voice."

"Then answer the damned question."

"Did you say something?" He feigns bewilderment and offers a sparing glance while Verstael grimaces in disgust. "My apologies; I hadn't noticed."

For a moment, the researcher appears as though he may very well spit fire – which, really, wouldn't be surprising to Ardyn at all. He takes pause, seems to swallow whatever retort he's concocted, instead chewing his lip before scoffing bitterly.

 _"The Crystal,"_ he repeats, with emphasis. "Is it dormant or not?"

"Dormant?" A look of surprise overtakes the chancellor's features. How interesting. It would seem Verstael _had indeed_ been paying attention to someone other than himself. "Yes, but who's to say that the Lucians have not yet secured means with which to use the stone against us even now? Wouldn't that be a damned shame?"

Through the cryptic reply again serves to rile the other man, Ardyn's expression remains unchanged, his posture lazy as he leans over the rooftop railing. The sound of the researcher's muttering fades away again, time splitting into two very distinct halves in which he stands. On the one hand lies the mundane tedium of imperial life, fraught with the naïve expectations of inane mortal minds. On the other, a world of intangible impossibilities, where the nature of immortality remains unknown to him, time passing at a snail's pace. Somehow, he finds the latter preferable.

"Why send the commodore to fetch the prince?"

_"Why, indeed."_

"Don't tell me... you've developed _feelings_ for the boy?"

Eyes widen beneath the brim of his hat, focus in full upon the smaller man who observes with a knowing smirk. It feels very much like the old days spent in that hell of a laboratory, the researcher hovering just out of reach behind panes of glass and logging notes as to the nature of Ardyn's regenerative capabilities. How unsettling it had all been.

"Verstael, what a thing to say. I'm surprised at you." Adagium's lip curls into a grin. "Do you really think me _capable of such humanity?_ "

"No," comes the reply, after a heavy silence. "All the same, you _do_ seem rather invested in him."

"Keep your friends close, _and the last hope of the gods closer."_


End file.
